


On our way back home

by Kathleenishereagain



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, F/M, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Minor Character Death, Panic Attacks, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, References to Drugs, Slow Burn, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2020-09-03 04:35:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 54
Words: 335,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20258821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathleenishereagain/pseuds/Kathleenishereagain
Summary: Something ticked in Paul’s mind as the familiar words washed through him. When he looked at John, his friend was already looking at him. And suddenly, it all became clear: He remembered having that conversation more than 50 years ago. He remembered it too well.He had been thinking about it for years, wondering what he should have understood, how he should have reacted. If it was as meaningful as it had felt or if his memory had just romanticized it.“I don’t think a love like that obeys to any rules,” John went on, unaware of Paul’s agitation. “It’s not something that humans have created, not like a societal thing. It’s deeper than that, and that’s what some people are afraid of I guess, because they can’t control it. Whatever laws they create, they can never control it. A white lad will fall in love with a black girl.” He paused. “A lad with another lad. You know.”--Summer 2019, 77-year-old Paul wakes up feeling good and ready to face the day.And it would be a great day indeed...If he wasn't back in December 1965.





	1. Chapter 1

Waking up had always been easy for Paul. He was and had always been a “sun is shining, birds are singing, it’s a beautiful day!” kind of guy, couldn’t help it really. Even if as the years went on, things had been getting a tiny bit… harder. Stiff joints and back. Blurry vision for a couple of minutes. Dry throat seemingly all the time. Frustratingly tiny bladder. Not very funny things – even though he knew he shouldn’t complain for his age. 77 years was starting to be quite some time for a body, no matter how young he felt in his head.

But that morning, things were surprisingly easy. His body felt soft and supple, not even the slightest headache. Good day. With his eyes still closed, he started stretching in his bed, his groggy mind happily noticing that his knees weren’t hurting him at all. Very good day indeed! And a good thing too, because he had a meeting in town and then, off to his well-earned vacation. He turned to see if Nancy had awoken yet, feeling her side with his hand but came up empty. He slowly opened one eye – yup, no one. Oh well, another few minutes of sleep couldn’t hurt…

A weird feeling suddenly made him snap both eyes open. He turned on the light and looked on the other side of the bed, only to slowly realize his vision wasn’t betraying him.

This wasn’t his bed. Nor his bedside table. Nor his wallpaper, unless Nancy had decided during the night that big dark flowers were a thing again. An ugly hotel then? He sat up in his bed and looked around, a frown growing on his face. What day was it again? Was he still on tour…? He could have sworn he wasn’t, though. Increasingly confused, he looked at his bedside table, which didn’t help. A watch, a bottle of water, a retro alarm clock. Those were not his things. And there was another unmade bed right next to the table.

As his mind started to wake up a little more, a cold chill went through him. Tour had been over for a couple of weeks now. And just the night before they had had James over for dinner, they had talked about footie and everything, he was sure of that… Then where the hell was he? As he passed the possibilities in his mind, a thought imposed itself.

_He had been kidnapped_.

And… put to bed. In some pyjamas. Maybe he had been drugged…? Whatever it was, this was not normal. He had to get out, quick. A noise from the bathroom suddenly made him realize there was some light filtering under the door. As a cold sweat started pearling on his forehead, Paul got up and carefully approached the door, grabbing a chair on the way – just in case. Maybe his kidnapper was bandaging gunshot wounds or something. He had no memory of anything but some drugs could make you forget anything – he knew that first-hand. He raised the chair in his trembling hands, ready to kick the door open and face his abductor. But a new noise erupted behind the door, something heavy falling.

“Fuck!” A low voice cursed. “Fucking hell…!”

Paul froze. He knew that voice.

But that voice was impossible. That voice was dead. It sounded so much like him though… Paul cleared his throat and lowered the chair, sticking his ear to the door.

“George…?” He asked, quivering.

No answer. Well, it was official then, he was hearing voices. Or maybe it was just Dhani?

“Yeah?” The voice suddenly said, echoing loudly through the door. “You called me?”

Paul stepped back so fast he almost fell over himself, his heart beating wildly in his chest. That wasn’t… It couldn’t be…

When he heard more movement behind the door, a genuine fear took hold of him. He dropped the chair and raced to the door, his heart so loud he could feel it in his ears. He closed the door of the room and looked around for something to block it. All he found was a small dresser with an old decorative rotary phone on it that he picked up so quickly the phone went tumbling down. He was briefly surprised how strong he was – the magic of adrenaline, for sure. He blocked the door the best he could and started running down the hallway, his breathing frantic. He needed to get out. Make sure his wife was okay. What if they had kidnapped her too?!

He kept on blindly running in the hallways, not recognizing anything. The walls were a light dull yellow with awful floral pattern and the carpeting seemed to be coming straight from the 1950s. Room after room after room. Banging noises behind him only made him run faster. Relief came over him when he finally saw what had to be a lift. Just a few minutes and he would be outside of this nightmare. Maybe the police were already outside, ready to burst in and arrest the George impersonator. He arrived at the lift and pushed frantically on the old-fashioned button, praying for the lift to arrive faster. His heart was beating so fast now it could definitely be the beginning of a stroke – it was not that unlikely at his age. And who knows what he had been drugged with. Thankfully, a deep grumbling let him know the lift was arriving.

The doors opened and he rushed into it before brutally bumping into another body. The people in the lift stumbled backwards and Paul fell to the side, too frenetic to understand what was going on, and hit his head on the side of the door. A sharp pain made him wince and close his eyes. Two hands caught him to stabilize him.

“What the…! Paul! Are you alright?!” A nasal voice said.

Paul’s eyes snapped open to the face of the man holding him up.

Delicate lips, the lightest trace of stubble, the thin tip of an aquiline nose, dark circles under slightly squinty light brown eyes. A man larger than his body, larger than life.

“Paul?” John repeated, worried.

_It’s you_, Paul thought in a flash.

Right after, his head turned and everything went dark.

When Paul came back to his senses, he could hear voices talking around him but could not quite figure out what they were saying – apart from the fact that they sounded worried, which did not reassure him very much. His eyelids felt heavy and his breathing not quite regular yet. Words started however to slowly connect in his brain.

“…should move him to a bed?”

“Don’t touch him, an ambulance is coming…”

Someone next to him huffed. More steps, then more voices overlapping one another.

“What did you do to him?”

“…Who’s that? Keep them away. No, keep them away…”

“Nothing! He just rushed into me and then bumped his head and fainted.”

“…We have to move him, there’s more and more people now…”

“…They said not to move him…!”

“That’s no wonder, anyone who would see your face would pass out instantly.”

“Okay that’s not helping, George.”

The voices swirled in Paul’s mind, giving him a sudden urge to retch. Even if he hadn’t heard them in years – hell, decades -, he would recognize these voices anywhere. He couldn’t believe people could be that sick and go as far as imitating his loved ones. This had to be a nightmare. A horrible nightmare… he frowned and clenched his jaw, hoping somehow this would wake him up and send him back to his life, to his home… More shuffling. A gentle hand brushed his hair.

“Paul? Can you hear me?”

Paul was frowning so hard his eyes were starting to ache. His head was killing him. No longer able to fight the light seeping through his eyelids, he opened them and was immediately assaulted by the horrid yellow wallpaper. There were faces above him, at least four, more or less hunched over him in a blur of skin and hair.

“Are you okay?” Someone asked him.

Paul turned to the man who had spoken and the urge to retch came all over again. That was not possible. Brian could not be _here_, _talking_ to him, looking young and fucking _alive_.

“Just let him breathe, you’re going to overwhelm him all doting over him like that,” the slow drawl of the George impersonator said somewhere above him.

Becoming more and more aware, Paul looked at all the faces around him as if in a dream: Brian freaking Epstein was directly on his right, a cautious hand on his arm, and behind him there was… there was Neil? He could see a couple of other people shuffling behind them, whispering to one another, pointing at the end of the hallway. On his left, there was a man he did not recognize, even though he looked kind of familiar, standing next to an impossibly young version of _George_. And kneeling next to his head, there he was. John. _What the_...

“Can you sit up?” _John_ asked him, looking at him with worried eyes.

Paul found himself nodding numbly and immediately hands grabbed him to help him sit up against the wall.

“They’re here...” someone said.

And suddenly, everyone stood up. Paul was beyond confused, a dull ache vibrating in the back of his head. So this wasn’t a kidnapping: they couldn’t possibly be imitating everyone he used to know. And what kind of kidnappers called an ambulance? He had to be dead then, didn’t he? Or in the weirdest, realest dream ever…

A paramedic grabbed him firmly and flashed a light in his eyes.

“Do you think you can stand up?” He asked.

Paul didn’t even register the words but found himself nodding again anyway. What else could he do, at that point, really? A thought was playing on a loop in his head. He was dead. That was the only explanation. He had passed away in his sleep and this was some twisted version of paradise. But still, he needed to be reassured that this was real, that he wasn’t crazy. Anything but crazy.

“Am I dead?” He heard himself ask with a trembling voice that he did not recognize.

Someone near him laughed. As two paramedics helped him get up, he heard John’s voice again.

“Would be a pity if the last thing you saw was that ugly wallpaper, wouldn’t it.”

Suddenly, Paul wanted to laugh. This was John, alright. This was… Oh my God… 

Next thing he knew, he was fainting again.

It was like watching a movie of your own life and not being able to change a thing: the ambulance, the doctors, the nurses, hallways and white rooms, back entrances, stretchers. He had no idea what was going on, if he was actually dreaming, or high, or dead. He was in England – that much was sure, and people still called him Paul, or even “Mr. McCartney”. So he was still “himself”, whatever that meant. Apparently he had a mild concussion, nothing major but since he had passed out twice, they would keep him for the night in case. This was obviously a hospital, so at least it was unlikely anyone would try to poison him. He was relieved, really; with the late hours, no visit was allowed so he had time to think calmly, even if the dizziness he still felt was not really helping.

People kept asking him how he was, but he could genuinely not answer: beyond the pain in his skull, he felt weird, as if his body was not really his own. He didn’t even recognize his own hands when his gaze landed on them. They looked like some kid’s hands, not his own slightly dry and wrinkled ones. Even his voice sounded weird and awfully childish. Whatever his kidnappers had given him must have been really freaking strong.

Feeling tired and confused, he decided to ignore everything for a while. Close his eyes, accept the care he was given, drink what he was given. Doctors had told him it was normal to be confused with a concussion, but he knew this was not it. He was confused way before he bumped his head… Maybe he had dreamt George and John? Maybe they were random people who looked like them? The more he thought about it, the more the nausea came back.

When he would wake up, everything would be back to normal. It had to.

He was floating between slumber and consciousness, when a chair scraping the floor woke him up fully. _Sounds like Beatrice_, Paul thought. His daughter loved to make way more noise than necessary. His head felt much better too. The drugs must have worn off by now. Feeling immensely relieved, Paul turned with a smile and came face to face with… Ringo. 20-something-year-old Ringo, sitting on a chair with a newspaper in his hands, a bowl Beatle-era hair-cut, no glasses, no wrinkles. Just sitting there. Like this was totally normal.

The words came out before he could even process them.

“What are you doing here?” Ringo looked up, both surprised and happy to see him awake.

“Visiting you? How are you? You scared us last night, son.”

Paul sat up, staring at his old – well, not so sure now – friend.

“You look like a baby,” he blurted.

Ringo laughed.

“You’re one to talk!”

But Paul was not listening anymore. He swept his gaze over the room, took in the wallpaper, the metal bed, the parquet floor. It all felt – _old_. Not just old-fashioned or shabby, just… old. Definitely not the 21st century standards. There was even another fucking rotary phone.

A cold sweat trickled down his spine as a thought was growing in his mind. It made no sense. It made absolutely no fucking sense, and yet…

“What…” he stopped, his voice quivering. “What day is it?”

“Sunday,” he answered with a worried frown. “The 12th of December.”

Paul felt his heart starting to go faster again.

“No, I mean… what year?”

Ringo didn’t answer right away, clearly taken aback.

“1965. Are you sure you’re alright?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very very very much for the comments, I really did not expect that. Glad you like it :D! I probably won't be posting that fast all the time, but this one was ready and I feel it's a bit like the second part of the "beginning", so there you go.

The buzzing in Paul’s ears swallowed everything else. 

This wasn’t happening. This _could not_ be happening. 

He barely registered the door opening, letting a doctor enter. He asked him some questions, checked his eyes, the back of his head, told him he was fine – which Paul felt was the furthest from the truth. He left as quickly as he had come and Paul was not more advanced. He could not even bare to look at poor Richie, who thankfully must have understood he wasn’t in the mood for small talk. 

It was a bad joke. All of it. His wife was probably waiting for him back home. God, his _kids_. What could they be thinking? Had he just disappeared for his loved ones who were still in 2019?

At some point two other men entered but Paul was not really seeing anything. They came around the bed, speaking words he could not comprehend. Something about the nurses and about him being alright but still confused – yeah, no fucking shit. Here he was, in 19-bloody-65 with his dead friends in some random hospital. How old was he even…? 23? Yeah, 23. Oh God… 

He tried to focus his gaze on the newcomers, his mind desperately trying to get a grasp on this nightmarish reality. There they were, George and Brian, standing at the end of the bed, talking to Ringo and throwing worried glances at him. They looked so… healthy. They were breathing and moving and it all seemed so easy. Paul stared at George’s face and couldn’t help the image that flashed before his eyes: George on his bed old, sick and grey. Dying. The last time he had seen him, they had been talking for hours despite George’s hoarse voice. They had been closer that day than in the previous decades. They had said goodbye the only way they knew how – joking and smiling. 

That was 18 years ago. And yet, here George was, not even two metres away from him. Very much alive and so bloody young. Like John earlier – who had to be somewhere in the building, probably. Unless in this version of the past they were not even friends. Who knew! 

This was impossible to believe anyway. It was hard to even think the words: He had somehow inadvertently time-travelled. Jumped back 54 years prior. A true science-fiction prowess. Why him? And why not Ringo? He was alive and well last time he had had him on the phone. He had not done anything special the night before. Unless he had and had not just realized it, who knew.

And now, was he supposed to wait until whoever controlled the universe decided to send him back to 2019? Would he bump into the old version of himself? Maybe he should hide, make sure not to create a time paradox or something. He grimaced to himself. No, that didn’t make sense. He wouldn’t have awaken in his hotel bed with George showering next door if he was not back in his old role. He would have awaken in a bin or in his current home or something. That’s what always happened in the movies, anyway.

What was he supposed to do now? Just live everything _all over again_?

His gaze inadvertently met Brian’s and he realized they were all looking at him, expectant. They looked sort of spooked now. He must have drifted away longer than he thought.

“...What?” he asked, not able to hide the tiredness in his voice.

“How do you think about tonight? Do you think you can manage?” Brian repeated, articulating slowly as if he was lecturing a child. 

At this point, it wouldn’t change much if he was one. He was not even sure he cared.

“I’m not sure that’s a very good idea,” Ringo softly chided in. “Even if the amnesia thing wears off, he is still a bit pale.”

“Well he looks better than last night at least. I don’t know. What do you think Paul? You think you’re feeling up to it?” George drawled.

It took a few seconds for Paul to realize he was actually talking to him.

“Up to what?” 

“The show tonight. The last concerts of the tour.” Ringo answered, pressing on as if that would revive his memory. 

_Good luck with that mate_, Paul thought bitterly. _You’re 54 years late_.  
He didn’t know what to answer but seeing Brian’s hopeful look was too much for his resolve. He couldn’t deny the man. He was dead, after all.

“Yeah, I’m good”, he sighed.

He caught a smile on George’s face and for the first time since he had woken up, he felt some warmth spread in him. He hadn’t seen that smile in a very, very long time.  
A nurse came in with a jovial “Hello”, blushing when she noticed George and Ringo were there as well. She came near Paul and glanced quickly the board taped to his bed.

“How are you feeling? No longer dizzy? No more nausea?”

“No, I’m… fine.”

“That’s good. The doctor said you could leave, you just have to sign the check-out at the desk and you’re free to go.” She reassured him with a smile.

Paul smiled back, even if his muscles felt like stone. The nurse left and Brian followed her, stopping at the door. 

“I’ll let you get your things. See you downstairs.”

George mock-saluted him and got closer to the bed while Ringo was getting up, stretching. Paul started to push back the sheet, figuring he might as well go with the flow and get dressed. He was not one to wallow in his pyjamas (or in that case, hospital blouse) anyway. Not anymore.

“Do you need help?” George asked, vaguely pointing to his clothes on the table.

“I can dress myself”, Paul grumbled. 

“Where’s John?” Ringo asked George, not caring about Paul’s grumpiness.

Nor did Paul’s dismissal stop him from helping him taking off his blouse, either.

“With Mal, outside. Said he doesn’t like hospitals.”

Paul was trying to work out his jean but stopped still, a fleeting smile on his lips. That was true, John did not like hospitals. 

“I remember that” he whispered. 

“What?” Ringo asked him, his blue eyes piercing him. 

_Bluer than nowadays_, he thought. 

“Nothing. Could you…?”

He pointed at his shirt still on the chair. Ringo complied wordlessly. George was looking outside the window, the sun illuminating his angular face. So bloody young. 

When he was finally dressed, all three went on their way out, Ringo staying close behind him as if he was afraid he would pass out any minute. 

Which, frankly, was not that far-fetched. 

They had come out through the back of the hospital, crossing the path of a few doctors smoking in the hallways along the way (Jesus!). Thankfully, the rain had dissuaded any passer-by’s to linger in the area. Paul just avoided everyone’s gazes, talking as little as possible. He was vaguely aware John and Brian had asked him things but he could just not answer, let alone look at them. This was definitely too weird for him. The man he had vaguely recognized from the hotel was there again and he learnt (again) sort of by mistake that he was their chauffeur, Alf. Poor man, he had not survived the test of time in Paul’s memory.

That’s how now he found himself in the car, sandwiched between Mal and John, feeling unbelievably odd and out of place. With Brian in the front row, he was literally surrounded by dead people who had no idea what was coming for them. What a cruel joke. Everyone was talking but Paul could hardly follow anything, too preoccupied by his own thoughts. Fingers faintly brushing his suddenly startled him.

He turned to John, who was squinting at him.

“Are you okay?”

Paul stared at him, feeling like he was looking at an exceptionally detailed picture. It was like sitting with a weird lookalike, or being stuck in a dream and feeling like you can’t wake up. Like he was not supposed to be here and yet, here was the only place he could be logically be right now. He was not okay. But he could not tell John any of that. If he was to relive his younger years, even for a short while, better not live them in a mental hospital.

Next to him, John was still waiting for an answer. Well, ignoring him all the time was not a good solution either. 

“You still don’t wear your glasses.” Paul decided on after a while.

“What?” John chuckled. “I can wear them if you want but I’m afraid there’s nothing much to see in this town, Macca.”

_Macca_. Something heavy but warm settled in his stomach. He had not realized how much he had missed being called that. John calling him that. And just in a couple of years, everything would be ruined… The heated arguments and hurtful words they had exchanged still resonated in his head, even after all these years. They had made their peace and towards the end, they were in quite good terms – thank God – but still, nothing had ever been the same. If John only knew…

He was still staring at John, who gave him a little smile in return. He looked so… carefree. So innocent. 

“Are you happy?” he could not help but ask in the tiniest voice ever. 

He was not even sure John had heard him. Not sure he wanted to be heard, really. Stupid mouth that couldn’t stay shut.

The more he was thinking about it, the more he was sure of his new decision. He should just stay quiet and keep low, wait for this weird time effect to pass. To be back in his own time and not make any more changes in the timeline. He would be back in 2019 soon, he could feel it. Maybe if he could just go to bed everything would right itself. Or maybe he should bang his head again, even if he did not really fancy that option. If he was truly back in 1965, the tiniest action could change everything. He could not risk it. He was going home at some point, he was sure of that. Why wouldn’t he? So he just had to be careful not to change things more than he already had with his little hospital stunt. 

And yet, John turned to him, something indecipherable but undeniably soft in his eyes, keeping his voice on the same level as Paul’s.

“Who, me? Why are you asking that?” 

Yeah, why?

“Because it’s important.” He finally answered, hoping this did not sound as vague and cheesy to John as it did to himself.

John’s lips slightly parted, as if that was the last answer he had expected. He looked at Paul’s lips, then at his eyes. Still blind as a bat. Paul was urging him to answer with his eyes.

“….Well. I have every reason to be, don’t I?” John finally settled on with a shrug. 

Paul kept staring. Then, deadpan: 

“That is not a satisfactory answer.”

John arched a brow then started laughing. Shaking his head, he turned to look at the window, lighting a cig in the process, as if Paul was being ridiculous. Well, he probably was, but still. How could he think his happiness was a joke? Had they been that oblivious to believe the most important things did not matter? He had never been one to believe being young equalled being stupid but right now he was having some serious second thoughts.

The next few hours passed in a blur of confusion and awkwardness, the lads throwing him increasingly worried glances then and again in a spectacularly not discreet way. But Paul was staying put on his decision: go with the flow, talk as little as possible, do not make any waves. 

The time for the concert arrived way faster than he wished and suddenly they were in the changing room of their venue, the boys all unpacking their white shirts and putting on their slacks. A still shirtless John was currently telling a story that was apparently funny enough to keep Ringo from buttoning his shirt correctly, while George was smiling on his seat, busy with his cuff. They had tried several times to talk to Paul or to cheer him up but his cold behaviour had somewhat put them off, so they had resumed to just check if he was alright once in a while. Even though it was rare, Paul did have moments in the past when he would need to be a bit broody for a while, to just stay alone and cool off a little. They had all needed those moments at some point back when things were crazy, that he remembered, so Paul hoped they wouldn’t take it too bad.

Neil was in the room with them, checking if they had all the necessary instruments ready to go on stage. Quietly sitting in a corner next to him, Paul had finished dressing up and was just waiting, feeling a weight like lead in his stomach that was only getting heavier as the day went. You need to calm down, he thought as he was distractedly watching Neil opening the case of his Hoffner. Well, at least he was happy to see his good old bass. In all the madness of his time-travelling, that hadn’t changed, that was _normal_. Music was natural, it was reassuring. Like being home. Singing with his young voice again would probably be a bit unsettling at first but after a couple of- 

His eyes grew wider when a thought occurred to him. The setlist. He had no idea what they were going to play. What if he didn’t remember the words?! Or how to play the songs? _What if he was a mess on stage?_ The lads had to know the setlist, but they were already thinking he was going insane…

He cleared his throat and turned to Neil. _Be natural_, he chastised himself.

“Do you, um… do you have the setlist on you by any chance? I just want to be sure about the order. You know, with the concussion and all.”

Crouching over George’s Gibson, Neil halted his movements and looked up to Paul. If he was surprised, he was hiding it.

“Uh, I don’t have it right now but the technicians must have it. I can go and ask if you want?”

He had not finished his sentence that Paul was already nodding frantically.

“Yeah, yeah that’d be grand. Thanks.” Then, feeling he was being a little cold, he added rather awkwardly: “Lad.”

Thankfully, Neil did not question his weirdness; he just smiled and left the room and Paul was once again alone in his corner. He started rubbing his sweaty hands on his thighs in a vain effort to dry them, even though he knew perfectly that having sweat patches on his pants right before going on stage was not a great idea either. How could he sweat that much, though? Had he always sweat that much? He would not have thought he could ever miss being old, but there you go.

He saw George coming closer from the corner of his eye, hoping he was just coming to check on his guitar too. But when his concerned-but-trying-to-stay-cool gaze crossed Paul’s, Paul knew it was only wishful thinking.  
He braced himself as George took the gear off the chair next to him so sit on it.

“So. Are you normal again now?” George asked, straight to the point. 

Paul tried to smile but judging by the frown on his friend’s face, he had not really reached his goal.

“Oh, I’m good, normal, yeah. Um… good.”

George arched an eyebrow (they were so dark! How can eyebrows like that turn so grey?!).

“You look like shite and talk like you don’t quite remember what English sounds like.”

“That’s not-- what?”

“You need to get yourself together, mate. It’s just two shows, and then we’re off. Three months and you won’t even have to see our ugly faces anymore if you don’t want to.”

“Two shows?! Fuck I forgot!” Paul cursed, unable to stop himself.

George huffed. That made Paul realize what his friend had just said.

“Sorry I – I want to see your faces,” (George raised his second eyebrow) “No, really. That’s not, um. I’m just feeling a little tired, still, you know. A little under the weather. But I’ll be fine.”

Seeing as George did not seem convinced at all, he added with a little dry chuckle:

“You know me. Always ready for a show!”

“If you say so,” George agreed amiably, even if Paul could see he was not buying his bullshit.

As if sent by the gods, Neil chose that moment to come back in the room, paper in hand. 

“There you go!” he said while handing the blessed list to Paul.

“Thank y--“

“What is it?” George cut him off, trying to get a glance of the paper as Paul tipped it protectively towards his chest.

“Noth—“

“The setlist,” Neil responded, not realizing what was going on at all. “I’m off backstage then, see you!”

He left before any of them had a chance to say anything. Paul tried his hardest not to look at George’s perplexed face and took a look at the setlist instead. "I Feel Fine", ok, "She’s A Woman", sure, "If I Needed Someone"… If I needed someone? What…? What was… Oh! Yeah, that was one of George, but… God, he could not remember how it went… Hopefully there was not any harmonies (even if he knew perfectly that they had them in almost _every_ fucking song). The others songs should not pose any real problem, at least. So he just had to lip-sync that one George song. Should not be too hard. 

What had his life come to.

All things considered, the concerts had gone surprisingly fine. He knew the songs, sort of knew the chords - despite a few discreet quacks here and there – and had even remembered a few words in George’s song. They were definitely not his best performances (and probably his worst, to be honest) but at least, no one had thrown anything at him or asked him to leave the stage so that was a win. 

Coming back to the hotel was stressful (he could help but have war flashes of his agitated evening) but sleeping was his only desire at the moment. Just go to sleep, forget everything. Wake up in a normal world, hopefully. He had politely declined going to Brian’s room with everyone to celebrate their last night of the tour and was now more than happy to be alone, at least for a couple of hours until George got back. His bed had given him heart eyes when entering their room but he felt so unbelievably sweaty and dirty that shower first was sort of necessary.

Once in the bathroom, he got rid of his clothes as quick as possible and entered the shower without a second glance to the rest of the room. Closing his eyes under the spray, he could almost pretend everything was normal, even if the weight in his stomach was still present and making him nauseous. He needed to be practical and not think about the meaning of anything. For some reason he was here. That was a fact, there was no going around that at that point. But he would just go to bed, sleep it off. And wake up in 2019.

Feeling vaguely calmer, he got out of the shower, hair dripping, put his briefs on and slightly opened the door to let the condensation out. He then went to the sink where two toothbrushes were waiting for him. He had no idea which one was his, but oh well. What George did not know would not hurt him. When he looked up, the toothbrush fell in a soft “pop” on the floor.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he let out unwittingly.

In the mirror, he was staring at his own reflection. 

Somehow, he had not seen himself since he had awaken the night before. He knew he was 23 again. He knew it. But nothing could have prepared him for this.  
With his towel, he cleared the condensation left on the mirror and _stared_.

He was so, _so_ bloody _young_. His hair was dark and incredibly thick, framing his pale face. His skin… God, his skin! Smooth, spotless, no wrinkles despite the crows’ feet by his eyes. Elastic too, he noticed when he started pinching and stretching his deliciously plump cheeks. And his eyes! Had they shrunken with the years?! Right now they looked so big, so deep, so… lively. No wonder he could see so well now. Even his nose seemed tinier and tidier. Neatly placed in the middle and not falling and dragging the rest of his face with it. He leant as close as possible to the mirror, ignoring the items falling in the sink around him, and studied his lips. They were so plump and soft he could not help feeling them with his fingers. He did not even have his scar yet, which was probably the weirdest thing of all. He still felt infinitely odd and yet, a strange but very nice buzzing was spreading in his whole body. 

In 2019, he had sometimes trouble looking at himself and seeing what his closed ones still found beautiful. He was alright, really, he knew that, but the mirror in the morning was most of the time a harsh wake up call. Even if he was okay with aging and could definitely see the perks of it, sometimes it was hard to remember he used to be called “the cute Beatle” when he was just looking at the face of an old, tired man in the mirror.

And yet, now, the proof was literally staring at him. _He_ had looked like _that_. 

“I am fucking beautiful” he murmured, frowning at himself.

“Well, I guess it’s always good to be aware of your own assets,” a nasal voice answered him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again thank you so much!! I keep blushing in front of my computer hihi  
I haven't been writing fanfictions in more than ten years so I haven't quite found the hang of it back yet! Thanks again, your comments just pushed me into writing quicker :D

Paul screamed and turned to the door so quickly he almost slipped on the still wet floor, clinging onto the towel rack for dear life.

John was leaning against the wall, watching him with a wide smile and looking infinitely pleased.

“What the… How did you get in?!” Paul hissed in a way too high voice, a hand on his wild heart.

John showed the key in his hand. 

“George gave me his key,” he answered way too happily.

“You’re not at the party?”

“John is, actually, I’m just his understudy.”

The joke was so ironically accurate that Paul could only stare at him.

“Nah. It was a bit boring without your whinging, to be honest.” John finally admitted.

Paul could not fight the tremor on his lips, a smile threatening his angry composure. John was smiling smugly, his eyes dropping to Paul’s body. 

“I didn’t mean to interrupt your little motivational speech though. Important stuff, that is.”

“Shut up. Smartass,” Paul retorted, blushing to his roots and covering himself with his towel.

“Smartass? Are you _American_ now?” John parroted him in a terrible American accent.

Paul threw his towel in John’s face, which thankfully made the latter laugh and drop the subject. Paul needed to be more careful with his language if he wanted to keep low.  
It was so easy, bantering with John: just seeing his mischievous eyes made him fall back into it in a second. He had missed this so much, hearing John’s so peculiar voice, being close to him. If he was not thinking too hard, it was almost as if he had never left him. As if John was still alive and they were still best friends. Something twisted in Paul’s stomach.

“I need to, um…” Paul said, pointing vaguely at his room.

John retreated to let room for him to go through the door, reverencing for show.

“Sure, be my guest.”

Paul went straight to what had to be his suitcase, placed neatly at the bottom of his bed. It was unnerving, dressing up under John’s gaze. It used to be natural for them to see each other with more or less clothes, but he had not seen John in more than 39 years, even less been intimate with him. His hands were trembling when he got into a light t-shirt, hoping John would not notice his nervousness.

When he turned around, he saw that he didn’t need to worry, though: his friend was spread out on George’s bed, pulling on a piece of wallpaper that was starting to peel off. Paul sat on his own bed, not really knowing what to do. When the bed creaked under his weight, John turned to look at him.

“So? Will you tell me what’s going on with you?” he suddenly said, his eyes piercing Paul’s.

Paul froze, taken aback. 

“Nothing,” he lied, knowing perfectly that John would see right through it.

As expected, John snorted. He rolled on the bed and came to a sitting position mirroring Paul’s, just in front of him.

“You’ve been weird all day. You barely ate anything, didn’t say a word. I haven’t even seen you smoke.”

_Of course he would notice_, Paul thought bitterly.

“I quit smoking,” he cautiously answered.

He hoped this would divert John from the real problem. At least talking about smoking was the lesser evil.  
But John grimaced, as if he didn’t believe him. Which Paul could not blame him for.

“Since when? Why on Earth would you do that?”

“Because it’s bad for your health?” Paul retorted, slightly offended by John’s judging tone.

John snickered disbelievingly, spreading his arms on the bed to grab the sheet in his fists.

“Don’t tell me you’ve become an anti-advertising freak,” he said, sounding a bit irritated as well. “What, you bang your head and suddenly you’re a nun?”

Paul sighed. This was turning bad way too quickly. If he wanted to save his past and maintain his relationship with John as it had been, he needed to cut the conversation short. Even if it would look odd to his friend.

“Why did you come here, then?” he said, trying hard to sound detached.

John stayed silent, mouth shut in a thin line and frowning ever so slightly.

“Did I do something again?” he asked so low Paul could barely hear him.

“What? No, of course not! Why would you think that?”

John kept staring at him, his frown growing.

“You know you can talk to me, right? I know I can be a jerk sometimes but—“

“No! No don’t say that, you’re not…” Paul cut him off. He could not let him believe that. After all this time, if there was one thing he could fix, that was it. He took a deep breath, hoping his quivering voice wouldn’t betray him. “You’re not a jerk, you’re a great guy. You’re brilliant, John, and you’re my best friend. No matter what happens, you will always be my best friend, okay? I love you.”

The silence was deafening. Paul stared at John’s confused face, hoping he would understand how much he meant those words. But the embarrassment was clear when John started fussing with the sheets in his hands, avoiding Paul’s gaze. The “younger” man thought he could even spot a light flush on his cheeks.

“Okay okay, no need to cry on me, man,” he chuckled, painfully awkward. He got up suddenly. “I, uh… I’ll let you sleep then. Long day and all that.”

Paul nodded, knowing he had probably come on a little too strong. John was not one to let things become awkward but they had never been touchy-feely, even less in their Beatle years. Paul was not as naïve as to think this would solve all their future problems, but if John remembered even for a little while that Paul truly cared about him, it was still a step in the good direction.  
He watched John cross the room to the door and stop with his hand on the doorknob to turn to him a last time.

“And for the record… You’re my best friend too,” he quickly said, before smiling tightly and leaving the room.

Paul stared at the door long after he was gone.

Something was hammering in his head. He was not even asleep, he was actually trying to find the right door to leave this never-ending hallway, but that noise kept hammering louder and louder in his head. If only he could find the right…

The alarm clock was ringing relentlessly. 

Paul groaned, burying his face in his pillow. Why was it so shrill? What happened to the sweet blues music Nancy loved so much? Another groan somewhere on his left rose and soon after the ringing stopped. Thank God. But as he was slowly coming to his senses, Paul froze. Oh no.

He sat up in a flash, eyes wide open but only seeing pixelated grey spots. He waited for his blood pressure to go up again and slowly, his vision composed itself again. He was still in the dreadful hotel room, his hands were still those of a kid and George was still lying in his own bed next to him.

He stayed still in his bed, the white noise dripping from his brain to invade his whole body. He wasn’t home. He wasn’t back in his own time. He was stuck here. He really was stuck here.  
On the other bed, a dishevelled George was sitting up as well, facing the window and slowly putting his socks on. Paul watched his every movement, his head about ready to burst. He had had no tangible reason to believe another night in the same hotel bed would reverse the time-machine-thing effect, but he had worked so hard at persuading himself it was the only thing that could happen that now he was even more distressed and completely lost than when he first learned he was in 1965.  
With only his tank top, his briefs and his socks on, George got up to his suitcase and looked at Paul.

“What time is the plane again?” he asked casually.

“I have no bloody idea,” Paul murmured, feeling so numb his lips seemed to work on their own.

George chuckled and quickly dressed, going back and forth between the bathroom and the room to prepare his suitcase. When he noticed Paul still hadn’t moved a limb, his gaze lost in limbo, he came closer to his bed.

“Is it your head again? Does it hurt?” he asked softly. 

Paul turned to look at him. His hair was still a mess. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Neither of them was.

“Paul?” George pressed on.

A knock came on the door, followed by Mal’s voice.

“If you want breakfast lads, it’s now or never!” 

“Yeah, thanks, we’re coming!” George called out back. He then opened Paul’s suitcase, took a random shirt and threw it at Paul’s face. “Gear up now. The plane might wait for you but I won’t.”

After a second of hesitation, he threw a pair of pants as well. And socks. Then he left the room, smiling to himself.

Alone again, Paul could not quite comprehend how he was supposed to behave now. He could not live everything all over again. There had been good times, sure, incredible times even. But also terrible ones. Loneliness, grief, heartbreak. Boredom, anger, stress. Tensions and anxiety, depression even. He could not just re-live his whole life, he would go insane. How would his memory work? Would it just replace his old memories with new ones? Would he lose everything he’s built so far? His family, his kids? His career, everything? Would that mean that 50 years from now he would be 73 in his body but 123 in his mind? This was so fucking unfair. He would just live in an eternal state of déjà-vu, knowing disastrous things would happen – his wife’s cancer, John’s murder, his father’s and George’s deaths, the Iraq war, the 2004 tsunami, September 11th, the cyclones, the terrorist attacks, his loved ones’ sicknesses and accidents, the Orlando shooting, even the Beatles bloody break-up – and not being able to do anything about it. This was too much on a man’s mind and he was not sure anyone could, or should even, withstand that. And he might never see his family again. Even if he met Linda and Heather, even if he had kids with them again, nothing certified they would be _his kids_. No one could replace his kids. What they lived and have been through together could never be “replicated”. 

He had lost them. He had simply lost them forever. 

Suddenly, sheer anger started flowing in his veins. What had he done to deserve that? Why him?! Why couldn’t he grow older with his loved ones and die peacefully like everyone else!? Tearing himself out of his sheets, he accidentally bumped into the nightstand, a sharp pain hitting his toe. Wincing, he lifted the nightstand and threw it against the wall, leaving a clear dent in the not-so-fresh wallpaper. For a second, he worried about degrading the hotel but his concern was instantly replaced by a cold desire to laugh at the irony of the situation. He had been ripped of his life and still he was worried about some hideous wallpaper, as if it even fucking mattered.

“Well fuck you, you fucking wallpaper!” he shouted nonsensically, blinded by his fury. “Fuck you! …Fuck…”

His breathing was getting erratic and his ears kept ringing, making him cover them with his hands as hard as possible. No, he could not have a panic attack. Not now. He didn’t need another thing to go wrong in his joke of a life. He could blurrily hear someone knocking at the door but was incapable of recognizing the voice calling out to him. Noise behind him let him know they had managed to open the door but he could not see anything, it was all blurry, tears having flooded his eyes without warning. His heart was beating in his throat, in his face, everywhere.

A gentle hand came on his arm, trying to make him stop shivering, screaming or crying, he didn’t know. He did not know anything anymore. 

“… to breathe. Just take deep breaths, it’s okay. It’s okay, Paul.”

Trying to follow the voice’s instructions, he forced himself to tune everything else out and focus on his breathing. In and out. In and out. 

He could now see what was going on around him. There was a hotel employee with a key in his hand next to the door, and Ringo in front of him, studying him with worried eyes.

“Do you feel better?” he asked as gently as ever.

Paul numbly nodded, trying to anchor himself in Ringo’s reassuring gaze. He knew Ringo. He had known him all practically his whole life. Nothing had ever come between them – never for long. He had last seen the old version of him not even a month ago. He could trust him.

“I shouldn’t be here.” He confessed, his voice sounding weird to his own ears.

“What do you mean?”

“I shouldn’t be here. I don’t _belong_ here, Rich.” He insisted. 

Ringo only stared at him, his lips slightly parted, clearly at a loss to what to answer to that. The hotel employee had discreetly left the room at some point.

“I don’t belong here,” Paul repeated, fresh tears swelling up in his eyes that he refused to let fall.

Ringo’s grip tightened on his arm. 

“Of course you do. Stop staying that. You know that’s not true. If there’s one person who belongs here, it’s you.” He calmly said, trying (and failing) to reassure him.

But Paul kept shaking his head.

“You don’t understand. You can’t… I can’t...”

Ringo looked at him and tightened his lips for a second.

“Okay. Well, I may not understand what’s happening to you these days, but I’m here. When you’re ready to talk about it, whatever that is, I’ll be here. Alright? Now what you need is food, so let’s go get some breakfast before it’s too late, aye? We’re supposed to leave soon.”

He patted Paul’s arm once again then finally let go. Feeling still quite angry but mostly exhausted - despite having just woken up -, Paul dressed himself without thinking about it. He still had no idea what he was supposed to do, but he guessed it could wait at least until his belly was full. Deciding to put his brain on pause for a while, he threw what seemed to be his haphazardly into his suitcase and followed Ringo out of the room.


	4. Chapter 4

The hotel employee had gracefully accepted not to tell his manager or Brian about the little nightstand incident. They had left Cardiff without further problems, flying smoothly back to London.

From then on, Paul was basically going through the motions. Even if seeing his old friends all alive and well was heart-warming, thinking about his own family he had been ripped from was making him bleed internally, the pain so strong and persistent that he could do nothing but to numb everything else not to feel it. Colours and shapes scrolled before his eyes, leaving him imperturbable.

He was dragged into a meeting with Brian, John and George to talk about their “future movie” but the memory of the last time he had lived it was still too vivid in his mind, making the whole thing even more painful. He could not bring himself to actively participate, remembering how last time he had been so passionate about it. It seemed so long ago now. Paul knew the session would be fruitless anyway. John and George had both tried to stay with him when they left the NEMS office, talking about celebrating the end of the tour properly at St James Nightclub. That had left Paul puzzled, feeling like things had not quite happened that way in his past. He had even asked George if they had not been supposed to be in London the night before, and learned that way that they had stayed an extra night in Cardiff because of Paul, to make sure he wouldn’t strain himself after his concussion. Paul was touched, but he had quickly excused himself, pretending a headache to slip away into the street before they had time to stop him and drag him to the club.

Now alone in busy London, two new things became painfully clear to him: he was far more famous and recognizable now than in 2019, and he didn’t have his phone to find his way home on his own (not even mentioning the fact that he was not really sure where home was at that point). One of his grandkids had made sure his phone was as up to date as possible UPS-Google-Whatsapp wise. Just thinking about his grandkids made him want to cry.

Tucking his hands into his coat to fight the biting cold (it was summer for him only two days ago so he would not be surprised if he caught something bad along the way), he lowered his head and tried to follow the walls to avoid people as much as possible. While making his way to the train station, he caught himself several times trying to reach his phone in his pockets, only to be disappointed each time. He might not be a phone addict, but he already awfully missed Internet. How was he supposed to live without it now that he had had a taste?

Hidden behind a truck at a back entrance of the train station, he stopped for a moment on a step to think. December 1965… he had not bought his farm yet. He did not live with the lads anymore though. Where had he lived in-between? A shiver went through him when he remembered something. He had lived at Jane’s parents’ for quite a while, must have been around these times. He could definitely not go there, though: first of all, he did not remember at all where that was, and no way could he force that onto himself. It would be beyond awkward and embarrassing. Where else could he go, then?

His decision was made before the thought was fully formed in his head. He knew where to go.

Paul had opted for a taxi rather than the train, finding comfort in the numerous bills laying in his wallet (not finding any credit card had almost given him a stroke before he realized what year it was again). It was one hell of a fare, but as long as he could afford it, it was worth it if it meant avoiding anyone recognizing and approaching him. When the taxi arrived at his destination in the evening, he stood a long time in the street, suitcase in hand and guitar case on the back, staring at the brick façade. He felt like a teenager again, arriving to Forthlin Road from Hamburg or France or whatever, with an empty stomach but a head full of dreams. How times had changed.

Bracing himself, he followed the tiny pathway up to the door. He rang the tiny bell, feeling suddenly very old and tired. 

The door opened and revealed a middle-aged man wearing an apron and sporting few hair, a straight posture and bright eyes. Paul immediately choked with emotion.

“Dad,” he murmured. 

Jim widened his eyes, surprised, then caught himself, smiled and raised an arm to pat his son on his shoulder.

“Hello, good to see you, son.” He answered, formal just like in his memories. “I didn’t expect you. How are you? Well come in, don’t stay out like that.”

His father ushered him in. As Jim was going to the kitchen, Paul took the place in, too stunned to say anything. Everything was as he remembered it, down to the chipped tile where he used to manage to catch his foot every single time – even if he hadn’t spent that much time in his father’s house. He lingered on the pictures over the buffet: his brother at his football club, Ruth with friends, himself at the choir, his father and Angela on their wedding day. He didn’t even know where some of these pictures had gone.

“Jane called earlier. She was looking for you, she sounded worried,” his father told him from the kitchen.

Paul frowned, momentarily confused. Why would she be worried? Was he supposed to meet with her? He put down his guitar and suitcase and followed the smell of eggs and potatoes. His father was fussing over an omelette, having opened the window to try and get rid of the strong smell he didn’t like having in the kitchen. Paul’s heart was both full of affection and dread. It was like a perfect picture of the past, screaming at Paul and making him feel even more out of place.

“Thanks, Da,” Paul answered randomly, relishing how the word sounded and how good it felt to be able to say it again.

His father turned off the stove and took the omelette to the table.

“Angela is at work but she shouldn’t come home too late, I reckon. Take yourself a plate.”

Paul instinctively obeyed. Here he was, 77 and still obeying to his father. He sat down at the table and started on the omelette. It was probably one of the best things he’d eaten in years. He kept throwing side glances to his father, marvelling at his hair being darker than the last time he had seen him and at seeing him move so much more easily. Knowing he was actually older than him was beyond weird.

“Where’s Ruth?” he asked, realizing his step-sister was 6 years old again (this day was getting weirder and weirder).

“Asleep”, his father answered, not looking up. “Are you planning on staying here?”

“If you don’t mind?” 

“No, of course not. Guest room is always ready for you boys.” Paul felt his heart warm again. “How was the tour, then?”

Paul sent him a cautious smile, hoping he wouldn’t see how fake it was.

“Alright. Tiring.”

Thankfully, his father did not probe further and was happy instead to give him “news” of the family. Paul listened, having vague recollections of some facts. It was not a very comfortable conversation for him, the sense of déjà-vu nagging at his mind all the time. _You know that_, a voice kept whispering in his head. _You already know all of that_.

When they finished their meal, Paul helped his father clean up the table and went to the mural phone. Calling his ex-girlfriend (damn, ex-fiancée even) was the last thing he wanted to do, but he just could not pretend she did not exist. For her, he was still very much her boyfriend. He picked up the phone and realized blankly that he did not know her number. He grabbed the little pad tucked against the wall, hoping it was some kind of directory. He flipped the first page and fell on “Paul’s Asher”. Well, at least that was clear.  
Paul put the pad back behind the phone and leant against the wall. As the phone rang, anxiety bubbled in him. They had not parted in the best conditions, so pretending everything he had lived from 1966 onwards hadn’t happened required certain acting skills he most probably didn’t have.

“Hullo?” A feminine voice answered almost immediately.

That voice could be anyone’s, really, seeing how bad the communication was. 

“Jane?” He tried, trying to sound casual.

“Oh Paul! Thank God it’s you! Where are you?! I’ve been so worried!” She answered in a rush.

“I’m alright, don’t worry. I, uh… I’m at my Dad’s.”

The silence following his answer was almost as uncomfortable as Paul himself felt.

“Your Dad’s? I thought you were coming straight to London,” she said, on a suspiciously level tone.

Paul suddenly felt stupid for not having thought of an excuse sooner. Of course everyone would have expected him to go straight for his “girlfriend” and not driving up north for hours.

“I’m sick,” he blurted, figuring this was as good a reason as anything. “I wasn’t feeling well on the plane back and my head is killing so I didn’t want to bother you with that. I forgot to call you at the office, sorry. And I haven’t seen my Dad in a while, so. You know.”

This time, Jane took even longer to answer. He was acting weird, he knew it, but he could not even find it in himself to care.

“OK. Well. I hope you’ll get better, then. You sure must need some rest.” She paused, as if she was trying to figure out if he was lying or not. “You uh… You’ll call me, right? When you’re feeling better?”

“Sure, sure. Of course,” he hurried to answer, feeling suddenly guilty even though she hadn’t meant anything for him in a long time.

He had genuinely cared about her, back then. It was the least he could do.

“OK, good.” She sounded reassured. “Oh, and John called, by the way.”

Paul’s ears perked like a dog’s. John?

“What did he want?”

“He was wondering where you are, like the rest of us,” she answered in a giggle that did not quite hide her discomfort. “You should probably call him back.”

“I will,” Paul assured her, knowing fully well he wouldn’t.

“I’m going to leave you then, you need to rest. And for real, please. Bye, love you.”

“I will, thank you. Um… Bye.”

Unable to respond to her “love you”, he just hung up, hoping it wasn’t too harsh. God, how much he missed his actual wife…

Deciding his day had been emotional enough, he picked his things up from the living-room and went straight to the guest room. He couldn’t wait to sleep and just forget everything. But first, there was something he ached for even more. 

He knocked on the bathroom, where his father had just finished brushing his teeth and turned to him with a curious glint in his eyes.

“Dad, can I… Can I hug you?” He asked shyly, really hoping his father wouldn’t brush him off.

His father stopped drying his hands for a second, watching Paul with something akin to worry. He seemed to hesitate until he finally finished drying his hands and put the towel back next to the sink.

“Is everything alright, son?”

Feeling a blush creeping on his neck, Paul just went for it and hugged his father, who after a while started awkwardly patting his back.

“I’m good, Da. I’m good.”

Getting out of bed had been hell. 

He had technically no reason to get up: No recording, no touring, no obligations. No kids, no grandkids, no wife. No friends – not really anyway, none he could sincerely talk to. Plus, he was taking his breakfast when he realized his throat was so sore he could not even swallow properly. Great. He was sick now. Just what he needed.

So, Paul went straight back to bed to bury himself in the sheets. His father and even his step-mother and step-sister were coming one after the other to check on him, bring him tea or bounce on his bed, but nothing could cheer him up. He basically felt dead inside, not seeing the point in doing anything. His sluggish mind matched his weakened body. Even looking out the window and seeing the leafless trees shaking because of the wind was painful. It was pointless. He fell asleep facing the wall.

The next day, Paul’s head was killing him and he was feeling hot all over, his hair sticking to his neck and forehead. He went to take a cool shower, his limbs so stiff and sore every movement was painful. When he came back to his room, someone had left some soup next to the bed. Paul downed it and crawled back beneath the heavy duvet. Nothing more to do.

The second day. Fever, fever, fever. In his dreams, nobody heard him scream.

Another day. The fever was starting to go down, the litres of tea Paul was drinking apparently winning the round. Yet, he still didn’t feel like getting up or talking to anyone. Ruth had come at some point to tell him Jane had called again, but he did not want to call her back. There was no point, really.

A new day. Paul stared at the window for so long his vision was starting to blur.  
It was snowing, outside.

Paul was actually in the kitchen, sniffling like mad while he prepared a fresh pot of tea. His step-mother came in, putting on her coat and making sure her hair was not caught by it.

“Phone for you, Paul.” She told him, reaching for her bag on the table. “Could you watch Ruth when she comes back from school?” 

“Sure. Thanks,” Paul answered, his voice particularly hoarse. Woah, he hadn’t realized in he hadn’t talked in so long.

Angela smiled and left. Paul slowly made his way to the telephone. He was still feeling like shit, even if his body was in a better shape already. Well, he was just going to bed anyway. Not like he had anything else to do.  
He picked up the phone and tucked it against his ear, blowing on his tea to cool it.

“Hullo?” He said distractedly.

“He’s alive!” Someone happily shouted in his ear.

Paul pushed the phone with a grimace but soon a smile was taking its place.

“Hi, John,” he said softly. It was still surrealist to hear his voice. Even more when it sounded so joyous.

“Hi yourself, young lad. How are you? Heard you were dying at your Dad’s?” 

Paul’s smile slowly broadened. John had always been ridiculously good at raising his spirits. Seemed like even time travels could not change that.

“Not yet,” he answered. Then, deciding John deserved more than that poor of a response: “You should send the coffin back to the shop.”

“Damn, they won’t refund me,” John replied without a pause.

Paul laughed. The feeling felt strangely foreign.

“You didn’t tell me, though, how are you?” His voice was very gentle.

Some noise, a kid crying and another background voice on John’s side resonated in the phone. 

“Could you make more noise please, I’m on the phone,” He heard John say harshly to someone else. “Sorry,” He told Paul, “Cyn is making a show of dressing the kid.”

Paul passed a hand over his eyes, feeling weird and uncomfortable again. God, Cynthia and Julian. Another ugly story he had been happy to leave in the past.

“How are they?” He asked calmly.

“Fine.” Paul could practically hear him shrug. “Crying and complaining, basically.”

“Give them a kiss for me, will you,” Paul said, tapping the tip of his slipper on the wall.

“Yeah yeah. You should come tomorrow, they won’t be here and I’m bored.”

Paul grimaced. He did not want to leave his Dad – well, his bed, actually. Leaving was too much effort. Seeing dead people too. But he knew John; he would hardly take no for an answer.

“I’m in Liverpool.” He lamely tried.

“I’m in London. Your point is?”

Paul sighed.

“Wow, you really seem eager to see me,” John’s voice pierced him through the phone. Beyond the acerbic tone, he sounded actually a bit hurt.

“It’s not that, just… I’m not feeling really good, lately, is all.” And I can’t look at you without picturing you with bloody holes in your chest, he kept to himself.

The silence on the other end of the line was starting to make him anxious. 

“John—“

“I’ll be at your Dad’s around 2. Don’t leave me waiting like a fool in the driveway.”

And with that, he hung up.  
Well, there was that.


	5. Chapter 5

Saying Paul was nervous was an understatement. 

He had not told his father John was coming, not in the evening before nor in the morning, even though he had had the chance several times. He had even been kind of snappy with him, unable to bear the man’s worry and love when he himself had not even been able to go to his funeral. Seeing his father’s frowning face and remember that he only had ten years to live left was just too much. So he had not told him anything.

Somehow, saying the words “John is coming” would make it even more real, and he was not ready for that. He had been about to call him and cancel everything a hundred times, beg him not to come even, but he had always finished by hanging the phone back. He did not know what to say. How to push away the best friend he had never been able to leave in the past. But he had nothing to say to him if he came. No story to tell (or at least none he _could_ tell), no jokes to share. What were they supposed to do together? Write “A Day In The Life” again? Just the idea made him snort. He really was not in the mood for conversation; seeing John was painful enough, he didn’t need to be faced with his own inadequacy again.

So there he was, sitting alone in the kitchen and biting his nails until they bled. He was still in his pyjamas, feeling stupid and angry at himself for not being able to just go back to his room and get dressed. He needed to get dressed quick, it was already 1:50, but he just could not do it. His limbs did not want to move, his anxious mind repeating to him that this was all pointless. He was useless here. He couldn’t see how having John over would help him get over the fact that he did not belong in this year. John would just laugh at him about the pyjamas anyway. Or maybe he wouldn’t say anything?

The ringing bell made him jump. Fuck, already?! He got up so fast his head started spinning, which was not that surprising since he had practically not eaten in two days. It was probably not the best idea, but forcing himself to eat seemed too hard. Hunger would come back, eventually. Maybe. 

Hard knocks came on the door, making him hustle to the entrance, pulling on his pyjama sleeves as if they would transform into a shirt by magic. He could see a person’s shape through the fogged glass. Maybe it wasn’t John? Maybe his father and step-mother had forgotten something on their way to Southport?

He grabbed the doorknob with a shaky hand and slightly opened it, throwing a glance behind it. A curious light brown gaze met his almost instantly. Paul deeply breathed and opened the door fully. John was facing him, dark coat and scarf on, bowing his head as if he was scared he would spook him. His hair was slightly longer than usual and he was not wearing glasses, his long nose the most unique feature Paul had ever seen. Paul felt a lump settle comfortably in his throat.

They stared at each other for a while. 

“Are you gonna let me in?” John finally asked.

Paul stood aside and John immediately entered the house, already taking off his scarf. Paul watched him go to the living-room, anxiously wrenching his hands. He had no idea what to do with himself, torn between the desire to look normal and the urge to cry.

“You should have told me it was pyjama day, I would have come prepared.” John noted, casting a look at Paul’s outfit.

Paul felt himself blush to his roots, looking embarrassedly at himself. Of course John would mock him. When he looked up, John was standing next to the chimney, fixing him with a strange look on his face.

“Are you still sick?”

Paul stared blankly at him for a second then made a quick grimace that was supposed to convey something along the idea of sick-what-no-who-me-never.

“Do you want tea? I’m going to make some tea,” he blurted suddenly.

He shuffled towards the kitchen, hoping this would leave him some time to compose himself. Unfortunately, loud steps behind him told him John was following suit, as comfortable as if he was in his own home. Paul had almost forgotten how shameless he was.

“You can’t keep avoiding my questions, you know. You look like a ghost and I think I’ve never seen you in your PJs in broad daylight.”

_That’s because you haven’t seen me in 1969 yet_, Paul thought bitterly as he was putting bags in the teapot.

“I haven’t brought many clothes, and I’m too lazy to do the washing,” he lied surprisingly easily. “I’m fine.”

He turned to John, who dramatically lifted an eyebrow.

“I’m fine,” Paul insisted. “Sugar?”

John nodded, allowing Paul to pretend they both believed him. They stayed silent, waiting as the bags slowly infused the water. It was strangely soothing, hearing John breathing next to him and watching the flowers and ellipses being drawn and immediately destroyed in the liquid. Cups in hands, Paul led them back to the living-room. John sank into a leather armchair while Paul stood clumsily in front of the coffee table, feeling like an overgrown Pinocchio: as if he was not a real human and did not know how bodies worked. John shuffled in his seat and looked at him, frowning.

“You look like a confused duckling. Could you please sit down or do something? You’re making me uncomfortable,” he grumbled.

Paul obeyed and sat on the couch, feeling even more stupid. This was not him. He had never been that awkward, that… inept. What was wrong with him?!

“Did you drive here?” He said, trying for a casual conversation.

“Yes I did Sir, and almost lost my life at it!” John answered, clearly very proud. “There was a massive truck coming out of nowhere when I left the M6, almost pushed me off the road. Would have ended up in a river or something if I hadn’t stopped. Imagine the titles: ‘The fat Beatle could not float after all’.”

“You’re not fat,” Paul retorted straight away.

“You say that because you haven’t eaten Cyn’s roast yet. That thing adds you 5 pounds instantly.”

Paul tried very hard to smile but his heart wasn’t in it. Not noticing his unease, John laughed at his own joke and pulled up the sleeves of his thick dark blue jumper. Under it, he was wearing a polka dot white shirt with short sleeves that Paul remembered fondly. He had been wearing it on the day they had recorded “Rain” – or maybe “Got To Get You Into My Life”? Well, he had definitely worn it for his 24th birthday anyway. And countless other times, including one of the rare days where they had spent time together with him and Julian. Just seeing it lightened his heart. This was maybe not all bad after all.

“I love that shirt,” he murmured, a small smile blossoming on his lips.

John, who was sipping his tea, put the cup back down and suddenly sat up as if ready to leave. Paul watched him with concern. Had he fucked everything up already?! John grabbed the hem of his jumper, more or less swiftly took it off and set it aside in front of Paul’s ever growing confusion. Then he methodically unbuttoned his shirt and realization finally downed on Paul.

“What are you doing?! I was not saying—“ He started in a panic.

“I know,” John cut him off, taking his shirt off and holding it out to Paul.

Paul watched him, dumbstruck. John sighed and threw the shirt at his face before putting his jumper back on. Paul slowly took the shirt and stared at it.

“You will be cold,” came out without him thinking about it.

“Don’t worry, grandpa,” John snorted.

Paul chuckled. Oh, irony.

“Thank you,” he whispered, not bothering to pretend he didn’t want it.

John just smiled and took his cup back. Paul caressed the shirt, amazed at John’s selflessness. He had forgotten about that. There was so much he had forgotten… 

“Too bad I left my balaclava at home,” John suddenly added, trying to contain his giggle.

Paul looked at him, clueless. What?  
John slowly frowned.

“It’s a joke. What we said the other day? That George needed a balaclava to play?” 

Shame, embarrassment and a tinge of anger overwhelmed Paul. Of course. Of course he would miss every inside joke. As if holding a normal conversation wasn’t hard enough. In front of him, John seemed almost worried.

“You seriously don’t remember? It was the night Brian lost his watch and you kept telling him he was late. We tried to make martinis? Come on!” He insisted.

“Well I don’t remember, I don’t remember okay? No need to rub it in,” Paul clapped back, suddenly irritated.

Surprisingly, John didn’t take the bait, even though his clenched jaw told a different story. Paul diverted his eyes and stared at his own hands around his cup of tea. He was still not used to seeing them so young and smooth. What were they doing here, exactly?

“Why are you here?” he asked John, still looking at his hands.

“You said you weren’t feeling well. I thought you would like seeing someone but sorry for imposing my presence if it’s such a drag for you,” John snapped.

“I have nothing to tell you,” Paul said honestly. 

He did not have anything to tell him that he actually _could_ say, anyway. Sorry I was an absolute wanker to you. Sorry I didn’t try to talk to you sooner. That I didn’t make more effort to patch things up between us. Sorry you died. I miss you. I have missed you for almost 40 years and I will never stop missing you. Seeing you so young and clueless is more painful than you could ever imagine. Talking to you makes me want to scream. It makes my head turn with happy fireworks and my belly burn with grief. He could not say any of that.

“Are you serious?”

John’s tone was bordering on seething, trying to get a reaction out of Paul. But Paul would not yield. Instead, he just looked at his hands.

“I didn’t ask you to come,” He added, trying to keep a level tone.

He was pressing exactly where it hurt. He knew it was unnecessarily harsh, but he could not keep lying and pretending everything was normal. This was pointless. If he was just going to be a burden for all his old friends, why let the thing drag? He might as well push John on his merry way now before things got uglier.

In a flash, John put the cup back on the table and got up. He started to march towards the entry hall but stopped and walked back to stand in front of Paul, an angry glint in his eyes.

“You know what?” He started, shaking with fury. “You’re a fucking tosser. Ever since your accident you’ve been acting like a knob head, treating us like we’re shit on your shoes. You want to stay alone and drown in your fucking tea? Go ahead, watch if I care!”

With that, he stormed out of the living-room, living a livid Paul behind. _This is for the best_, he repeated in his head. _He’s better off without you. This is for the best_. 

He heard the front door slam loudly and then, nothing. Only silence.

It was only hours later, when Paul was back in his bed and staring at the ceiling, feeling his heart in his throat, that he realized John had driven more than four hours _just to see him_. And that he had pushed him to leave after not even ten minutes. He had not even given something to eat, did not even thank him for looking after him. John was right; he was an absolute tosser. What was going to happen now? John used to be quick to get angry and quick to forget about it, but Paul remembered he could hold grudges for a good while when he was driven into a corner. Which was sort of what Paul had just done. He had hurt John again, as if hurting him was the only thing he was truly good at. It was not for nothing that their relationship had not stayed as sunny and beautiful over the years. Maybe he was not good for John anymore. Nor for George. And his father. Not only had he lost his wife, kids, grandkids and current friends, but now he was losing his old loved ones as well.

The weight in his stomach spread to his every limb, making him feel like he had been poisoned. Or more accurately, as if himself was the poison. This was not a second chance at life.  
It was a curse.

It was the middle of the night when Paul finally came to a conclusion. Since he couldn’t face his loved ones without feeling distressed and deeply alien and without hurting them over and over again, that he would not be able to just live everything all over again and that it was obvious by now that he would not go back to his own time period, there was only one solution. He needed to leave. Go somewhere far away, leave everything behind. Start over. A new life as a new Paul. Maybe he should even change his name – he would probably be forced to, anyway.

He pushed the sheets back and got up, waiting a few seconds for his blood pressure to accommodate. His suitcase was still simply waiting in front of the wardrobe. He had barely opened it since he had arrived, looking at his old things and not recognizing half of it making him feel too odd. He had simply taken an old white shirt and some checked loose pants to use as pyjamas in the wardrobe and had not changed since. Thinking he used to be obsessed with cleanliness was almost laughable, now. He opened the suitcase, randomly took some warm clothes and got dressed quickly. He probably looked like a mess but he couldn’t care less. He also found a notebook in there, and a few pencils. Tearing off a page, he started writing a quick note for his father. Weirdly enough, he had always been terrible at writing letters, and even worse at goodbyes. His note was thus quick and direct: 

“Dad, I need to take some time for myself. Will keep you updated. Kiss Angela and Ruth for me. Love, Paul.” 

He did not even know if he would keep up his word, but he guessed that at least his father wouldn’t search for him if he thought this was just a temporary situation.

He threw the notebook and pencil back in the suitcase and shut it. He cast a look at his guitar case that was pushed against the wall and hesitated. It was heavy. And carrying it around was bound to make him even more recognizable. With a twinge of sorrow, he decided to leave it behind. He took his suitcase, turned off the lights and left the room as quietly as possible. 

The note was trembling in his shaky hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again very very very much for your comments and kudos, my heart is bursting :D  
Things are going to get better, I promise. They have a loooong way ahead of them - and there will be surprises for everyone! Paul's vision "everything will be the same" is far from being the truth, hehehe


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you will like this chapter more than I do... I gave my best, though. Thank you all again!

Even though the last thing Paul wanted was to see anyone else from his past, he knew he had to give Jane a proper goodbye. She deserved some closure, at least.

Taking the train to London had been pretty much hell; he had had to wait three hours in the Liverpool train station (leaving in the middle of the night had not been his brightest idea) and the number of people who stopped him to say how much they loved the Beatles or ask for an autograph was downright ridiculous, even if he managed to deter most of them by pretending to be asleep against the window. He knew this was a stupid idea and a very unwise and unsafe journey, but it was hard to find enough strength in him to care. He was not even trying to disguise himself, knowing fully well that as long as he was in the UK, his “angel” face would not let him live his fame down. 

Thankfully he didn’t need to stay long in London. After his quick visit to the bank (which had been a nightmare to find, his memory having definitely failed him on that) to get cash from his trusted banker he did not recognize at all, he just needed to go to Jane’s parents, tell her they needed to “break up”, take his things and leave south. France maybe, or maybe the Netherlands. Maybe he would go even farther – there had to be somewhere where the Beatles were not _that_ popular, hadn’t there?

Not finding Jane’s house was both frustrating and humiliating. He remembered the neighbourhood alright but had now been lingering about like a lunatic for almost 20 minutes, squinting at each similar entrance in the hopes that one of them had a specific feature he would magically remember. He felt beyond ridiculous. 

“Paul?” A feminine voice rose behind him. 

Paul startled and turned hurriedly to find himself face to face with a middle-aged woman he vaguely recollected coming out of a taxi. She was wearing a thick black coat, curled red hair and a kind smile.

“I am glad to see you well. Jane was dying of anxiety,” she told him with a hint of reproach. 

Jesus. Jane’s mother. Her name was a total blank in his mind. He automatically drew a smile that probably looked painful. 

“Lovely to see you too. How are you doing?” He answered, sliding into his full ‘polite charmer’ mode.

She smiled brightly at him and started rattling on about her day at the garden of a friend who apparently was trying to create a new species of roses. Paul quietly followed her to the Ashers’ house, his single suitcase in hand. Once inside, he recognized the place well enough – even if it only triggered mild anxiety in him.

“Jane’s not home yet but she should be here for lunch. She was at a photoshoot and called to say it was running late – you know how these things are.” Her mother added, taking off her coat and hanging it on an expensive-looking coat-hanger. “I’ll let you settle in, you must be tired. We can chat later!”

Paul thanked her and as soon as she had turned to the living-room, he rushed upstairs where his room had been. God, why had he ever accepted to live there? He couldn’t wait to be out of here for good and was glad to have found the little golden key of his room in his wallet.

Once he pushed the familiar wooden door, he was overwhelmed with memories and emotions. These were his things: one of his first guitars standing proudly in a corner, books, notebooks and sheets of paper black with ink in neat piles against the wall, his awards on the shelf above the desk, his old blue jumper tossed on a chair, photographs stuck haphazardly on the wall above the large bed. There was also a lot of things that belonged to Jane, clothes, sculptures, other pictures, but his own presence was undeniable. But mostly, it was the smell. The room smelled like his.

Setting his suitcase down, he took a long while just feeling and rediscovering everything, a fragile smile ghosting his lips the whole time. Some of these objects were still with him in 2019, some had been thrown away over the years, and others had totally and mysteriously vanished from his life. He needed to sort everything, decide what he would bring with him and what he would leave in a storage. The photographs were a no-brainer. He desperately needed them. In all this madness, they were the only tangible proof that some part of his past was not only in his head. He traded some clothes (the suits were definitely staying behind) and picked up a harmonica George had offered him when they were kids and that he had been very sad to lose at some point in the 1980s.

He was folding the clothes he wouldn’t take with him in another bag when noise from the stairs warned him someone was coming. Sure enough, the door opened on none other than Jane herself. She looked so young and bright she didn’t seem real.

Without saying a word, she came to him and hugged him tight. She smelled like roses and mint and that made him weirdly emotional. Paul indulged himself in the hug. He _had_ loved her, after all. She pulled back a second to kiss him on the lips and buried her head in his chest.

“You are a twit. I thought you didn’t want to come home,” she mumbled against his chest, the vulnerability in her voice too much to bear.

She was slightly shaking. Paul felt horrible all over again.   
He gently put his hands on her shoulders.

“Jane…” He started hesitantly.

She pulled back instantly, her face going from relieved to guarded under his very eyes.

“You didn’t, did you? You were not sick,” She stated with a voice she was visibly trying to keep neutral.

“No I was, actually, but… that’s not why I went to my father’s place.”

She stepped back, crossing her arms over her chest. Her red hair was framing her delicate features and when she looked down, it partially covered her face.

“Why?” She asked quietly.

“I needed time to think. I was a bit confused—,” he confessed.

“No,” she stopped him, louder. “Why are you leaving me?”

Despite the difficulty of the situation, Paul felt relieved. She was making it easier for both of them and he couldn’t be more grateful. He pondered over what answer was best and figured the least he could do was to be as straightforward with her as she was being with him.

“I don’t love you anymore,” He finally said, as gently as possible (even if he knew perfectly well nothing would lessen the blow).

She nodded frantically, a torn smile appearing on her face. Her eyes were glistening but she was trying so hard to keep the tears from falling that Paul tried to honour her dignity by schooling his features. She didn’t need his pity. 

“Since when?” She asked, brokenly.

Paul hesitated, which made her turn her head to the wall, pursing her lips.

“A while.”

_Understatement of the century_, he thought bitterly. She nodded again, bringing a hand to her mouth. Then, in a swift movement, she came closer again, cupped his face and kissed him deeply. He kissed her back, caressing her hair. When she pulled back, there was something hard in her eyes. She studied his face, brushed his lips with her finger and quickly walked to the door.

“I don’t want to see your things when I’m back,” she said coldly. 

With that, she left and slammed the door. He could hear a strangled sob going away.  
Paul sighed deeply, closing his eyes hard. It was over. This was a good thing. He nodded to himself and turned to his unfinished packing. Yeah.   
A good thing.

Leaving the Ashers was hard (Jane’s mother proved to be particularly harsh when her baby was hurt), but the hardest part was discovering storage units did not yet exist in the UK. Paul had no idea what to do with his things. He could not just toss them away. Even if he sort of wanted to draw a cross over his ‘current’ life, he might still need his things at some point. He thus promised to the Ashers he would come back in the afternoon with a truck to get everything, only took his coat and wallet and went on his way. Where he would take his things though, that remained a mystery. 

His head was killing him, the lack of sleep slowly creeping up on him. Everything seemed harder in the 1960s: even something as simple as renting a car became a whole expedition. He couldn’t even ask anyone for help. Who? And how to contact them? He was so alone and bewildered he just wandered in the direction of Regent’s Park, not really knowing where else to go. Luckily, the icy wind was so biting (it was nearly Christmas after all) that he passed very few people, hiding his face in his collar. He needed to think efficiently. And to stop missing his bloody cell phone. And his scarf.

Sitting on a rusty bench in front of a large expanse of grass, he huddled in on himself to fight – uselessly – the cold. He wouldn’t be able to stand it for long, but the silence was consecrated bread for his tired mind. As a group of dark birds flew off from a tree close to him, he followed their flight with his eyes. They planned freely, fighting the wind and always winning. He even found himself envying them. Two of them flew out of the park towards the tall white buildings he could spot beyond the trees. Noticing that his toes were starting to freeze off, he swiftly got up and followed the birds. It’s when he passed an old woman looking at him weirdly that he realized he had been whistling the air of “Blackbird” the whole time. Well, it didn’t exist anymore now, did it.

He walked along the edge of the park and followed a side street, careful not to look at anyone who might be a little too curious. He arrived at a dead-end. The birds were there, cooing over a window on the third floor of the last building. A board caught his sight on the first floor. “TO RENT”. His feet stopped walking without him thinking about it. Huh.

Being famous was undoubtedly helpful in cases like these.

When the landlord opened the door to a self-conscious Paul, his mouth dramatically hung open. Paul explained he needed an apartment as quickly as possible and the older man scrambled to say this one was free whenever, showing him the few rooms, the strictest furniture coming with it. Apparently he had had some trouble to find tenants, most people preferring the nicest streets with a view on the park rather than this shadowed corner. But he quickly assured Paul the windows on the other side allowed a lot of sunlight to come in. He was living on the apartment above and could vouch for it. Paul did not really care though. The place was discreet, simple, well-placed. Not as expensive as he would have thought, even if in his past he never would have chosen this kind of place on a whim. But things were different now, weren’t they? And it was a perfect choice to store his stuff.

The landlord, who turned out to be a very nice man, was showing him the kitchen when Paul turned to him, his decision made.

“Can I move in today?” He asked, not bothering to lose any more time.

The man comically widened his eyes.

“Uh, well, yes, of course. If you want it, it’s yours,” He answered.

“It’s mine, then,” Paul smiled.

The man delightedly shook his hand, shyly admitting how proud he was to be his new neighbour (and incidentally his landlord). Another thought came to Paul’s mind.

“Could you not tell anyone? About me being here? I’m leaving for a vacation and it would be nice not to see my name in any newspaper, you know. I’d prefer to deal with things like that when I’m back.”

“Of course, of course, no problem! I understand, Mister McCartney.”

Paul proposed to make a first deposit and they agreed to prepare the contract to make it efficient as of the very day. It was not the perfect deal, but it was decent enough that he did not feel like he was making a huge mistake. At least, if and when he was to come back in England, he wouldn’t have to crash at anybody’s house. Happy and relieved, Paul was about to leave when he turned one last time.

“Another question: would you have a car I could borrow, by any chance?”

It had been long, tedious and exhausting, but Paul had finally arrived in France, or more precisely in Calais. Avoiding to draw too much attention on him had had him spend already way more time, money and energy than he would have thought. And taking the boat overnight had not much helped with his difficulty to sleep. Saying he was tired was putting it lightly.

He was now standing in the train station with his newly bought (and very hard to find) backpack. He had bought a cap and tucked his hair underneath, trying to hide his mop top as much as possible. He had also adopted the blandest country man look he could find and the stubble he now sported surely helped griming him. The pain killer and breakfast he had taken on the boat had been life savers, but he knew from the bathroom that he looked like hell. At least, he definitely felt like it.

With brand new Francs in his pockets, he was faced with a wide choice of destinations on the display panel. But he still had no clue where to go. Somewhere along the journey he had thought he could start painting again. Find a quiet village where no one knew him, settle for a while and paint his emotions away. He knew that he remained idle for too long he would go insane and that he would probably end up missing speaking English, but he needed a break. At least for a couple weeks. And if he changed his mind, he could still see about it later. That was his plan. But finding a quiet village without Google’s help was trickier than expected. God, how he had become so dependent was a mystery to him.

A woman from the group next to him suddenly gasped. He turned, watching them discreetly. The little girl had just spilled her cup of hot chocolate onto their suitcase and the mother was trying to dry it with a tissue. The little girl was now grimacing, looking at her cup as if it had betrayed her. 

“Je me suis brûlé la langue (1),” She whined. 

“Je t’avais dit de faire attention,” Her mother chastised her. “Tiens-moi ça. (2)”

The mother gave her the open bag she had kept under her arm until now. The little girl, who was probably around 8 years old, tried to balance her cup and the heavy bag but Paul saw the danger arrive before it happened. 

“Attention !” He called out, happy to know at least this word.

He rushed to the little girl and caught the bag right as it was about to spill over. The mother looked up, surprised and on the defensive, but eased when she took in the situation. She had very thin brown hair, dark rings under her eyes and wrinkles around her mouth.

“Merci,” she smiled at Paul. 

He smiled back, glad not to see any glint of recognition in her eyes. The little girl was already disinterested, bouncing up around them and blowing on her cup to cool it.

“Elle est toujours un peu excitée quand on prend le train (3),” her mother confessed, not realizing Paul barely understood a word.

“Pardon, je… parle pas très bien… (4)” He confessed clumsily, hoping his flailing arms would make his point clearer.

“Oh, sorry! Euh… why, euh… you ici ? You travel? Vacances (5)?” She bravely asked, compensating her poor English by her kind smile.

Paul hesitated. He was not at all in the mood for conversation, but the woman was making obvious efforts to talk to him. 

“Oui, um… Je… cherche, uh un village? Pour resting? Rest? Paint and… tranquille (6)?” He explained, miming more than he was talking.

The woman laughed and arched a brow.

“Vous devriez venir dans notre village, alors. More tranquille, not possible. Cows everywhere. (7)” She joked.

Paul thought he knew enough to understand her point. Her village sounded like the perfect place. Up until now he had followed his instincts. Why stop now? With many mimes and efforts, he asked the woman, who turned out to be named Marguerite, how he could go to her village and if there was a place where he could sleep there. She said he needed to take the same train as her daughter and her and then, if he wanted, her husband would be happy to pick him up as well from the station to their village, which was around 45 minutes farther. They did not have space for him in their home but she apparently knew the owner of a farm next door whose son had recently left the house. They might host him if he helped them out a little. 

The conversation had taken way too much time, but Paul was hopeful. Going back to a farm could only do him good. Not allowing himself to worry further, he accepted her proposition and followed Marguerite – and young Françoise – to the train to Arras. 

As a he stepped into the train, he felt his heart beating in his ears, his anxiety mixed with some excitement. He was ready to start a new life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) I burnt my tongue.  
(2) I told you to be careful. Here, hold this for me.  
(3) She's always a bit too excited when we're taking the train.  
(4) Sorry, I don't speak very well.  
(5) ici = here ; vacances = holidays  
(6) je cherche = I'm searching for ; tranquille = quiet  
(7) You should come to our village, then.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so this is a pretty heavy chapter, very little dialogue (and all in French, sorry) but I'm actually excited about it. Yay!  
Thank you again, hope you like it :D

Paul missed Ringo.

He was almost surprised when he realized it. He was milking the cows, sitting on a stool with his wellies on when it happened. He was wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand and remembered Ringo a couple of months ago, in his living-room, laughing for some mysterious reason about the hair falling in his eyes. It was probably one of the last laughing fits he had had, and like all good laughing fits, they had not really known what they were laughing about. He could see clearly Ringo taking of his coloured glasses and hiding behind a napkin. It hit him like a train. He missed Ringo. 

He had been living at Émile’s farm for more than three weeks now, sleeping in a tiny and rustic bedroom in the attic, on a bed that was so hard he couldn’t be gladder to be 23 again. The thick stone walls were surprisingly efficient against the cold, but the old door could not prevent him from being frequently awoken by his hosts’ two young girls screaming and running after each other. That was the deal: Émile and his wife Adèle provided him with food and accommodation if he helped them with the cows and the fields. In the tiny village of Léchelle where he was now living, people had no idea who he was. He was just the “Jeune Anglais” who had come here to get away from the city and become a painter, known as James to everyone (Paul found it internally funny how they struggled to pronounce it correctly whereas “Paul” was a French name as well). His days were busy. Up at 5 to milk the cows, clean the stables, feed them, go to the fields, paint a little or go for a walk when Émile didn’t need him, take care of the cows again, go to sleep. Paul welcomed the handy work though, liking how his exhaustion every night prevented him from thinking about his life all night long. 

Not that he hadn’t been thinking. He cruelly missed his children and grandchildren, their absence like a needle constantly piercing in his heart, injecting poison that could completely paralyze him if he let himself dwell into it. But he was trying to get going. To remember his babies fondly but still think about his own future. He wasn’t ready to think more ahead than each day starting but still, he was trying. Slowly considering things like having his own home, one item at the time. Like that lovely coffee table he had seen at Marguerite’s house when he had dined with them a few nights before; he was pretty sure that with Émile’s help, he could try and make one of his own. Or dogs. He would love a dog of his own. 

Émile and Adèle weren’t exactly the warmest of people. They didn’t talk much, and the fact that they could not understand a word of English made their conversations even rarer. But they were honest people, and genuine. Émile was gruff and sometimes bellicose, but Paul knew he had a good heart by the way he treated his animals and the patience he showed when he was teaching Paul how to carve into wood. Adèle claimed loudly how little she trusted British people, but Paul suspected the reason why they were eating rhubarb pie so frequently was because she knew he loved it. Things were not perfect, but they were okay. And that was basically all Paul was asking for.

Once he was finished with the cows, he wiped his hands and stretched his back. He wondered what Ringo could be doing. He probably was on holiday somewhere warm. He pictured him on a white beach somewhere, enjoying his well-deserved break with a daiquiri and a nap under the palm trees. But in his mental image, he saw his Ringo. The old one, with very short hair and peace signs stuck to his fingers. Some things were just too anchored in his head and heart, he guessed. 

He made his way back to the farm, digging his gloved hands in his pockets, the frosted grass creaking underneath his feet. The sky was cloudless but the morning white sun provided little warmth on his reddened cheeks. And he thought England was cold…

He stopped on the threshold of the house, wiped his wellies on the rug and went in. He was instantly glad to notice Adèle had lit the fire, the orange flames luring him like blood for a mosquito. Émile was sitting on the kitchen table, reading the newspaper, and Paul could hear Adèle changing the sheets further into the house. When Émile looked up, alerted by the sound of the heavy door, Paul nodded to him.

“Bonjour ! Les nouvelles sont bonnes ? (1)” Paul asked, more than a little proud of his improving French.

Émile groaned. 

“Toujours pareil. Une explosion dans le Rhône. Pauvres gars. (2)” He mumbled in his beard. 

Paul did not catch all of that, but he knew better than to ask the balding older man to repeat himself. Humming in response, he shrugged off his coat, took off his gloves and sat in front of Émile. A fuming coffee pot, butter and bread were waiting for him on the table. 

Paul was munching through his breakfast, happy to let the coffee warm him up from inside. After a few minutes of companionable silence, Émile folded the newspaper and got up, his wooden chair rasping on the floor. 

“Bon, je vais voir Lucien. Tu me rejoins au champ tout à l’heure ? (3)” He told Paul.

Paul nodded, knowing their ritual even if he didn’t know all the words. Once Émile was gone (not before grunting a last time about the badly oiled door), Paul took the newspaper curiously. He had discovered that forcing himself to read the French newspaper frequently helped him getting a better grasp of the language. But when he opened it and started flipping the pages, a small black-and-white picture caught his attention. What…?! Why was…? 

The cropped picture showed young George in his black suit, smiling brightly. Paul had seen articles on the Beatles appear on the national newspaper once or twice before, but never on only one of them. His eyes quickly scanned the article, which was very short, and the little he understood froze his blood. After a short presentation of George and the Beatles, there was something about a car accident, his friend having stayed in the hospital for a while. Nothing very serious apparently, but there were scars involved and Paul swore he could recognize the word “rib”. The journalist went on saying this should not endanger the future of the successful band but would certainly slow the singer for a while. 

Paul slumped back in his chair, the article like a blow to his face. That was not supposed to happen. George had not been in any accident in 1966, he was sure of that. He had been freaking fine. How could that happen?!

Paul was worried but also beyond confused. Was it because of him? Had his decision to leave England disrupted the great chain of elements? He guessed it must have, in some way, but it had nothing to do with George. If anyone had to be in an accident, it should have been him; he still remember how hard the tarmac had been when he had crashed with his moped. A strong desire to see and to talk to George overwhelmed him, to make sure he was okay, but he had no way of contacting him. He obviously did not remember his phone number, or anyone’s that would be useful for that matter. He was not even sure he would find his house if he went back to London. That was such a long time ago… The best he could do was to find some way to send him fan mail, but how to know where to send it? It would take ages before George even received it – if he did at all. And what would he write? ‘Hi, I really hope you’re okay, I know I’ve disappeared from the face of the Earth but please don’t look for me, love you mate’?

A look at the clock let him know he had to leave now if he wanted to join Émile at the field. He promptly got up and put his coat on, not totally ready to face the biting January cold yet. He was still thinking hard, a deep frown etching itself on his face. He did not know what to do. As he was making his way to the field, another memory popped into his brain. George’s wedding! It had been in January 1966! He was absolutely sure of that, because even though he had been pretty much wasted the whole night, he had been the proud best man. 

He felt a pinch in his heart. Since Paul wasn’t around, who had he asked to be his best man this time? Would they even be able to carry on with the wedding if George was hurt from his accident…? Maybe he had asked Richie. Or even John – who knew what else was different in this present. Thinking about his bandmates awoke his guilt. He knew leaving in the night without telling anyone where he was going was a dick move. He could only imagine their worry. Brian was probably pulling at his hair right now… His stomach twisted at the thought. Burying his head in the sand had been nice this far, but his consciousness would not let him get away with it that much longer. Perhaps he should find a way to send them a message. Tell them that he was fine and that he was sorry for leaving them. Maybe they would understand he had to (even if he doubted John ever would). Were they expecting him to come back? 

Actually… was he expecting _himself_ to come back?

The rest of the day drained away with Paul floating between different sets of mind: one moment he was ready to drop everything and jump on the first plane for London, the next he wanted to forget about everything and start working on his coffee table. And in-between, his anxiety and guilt were growing, gnawing on him. 

When the night came, Paul was more relieved than ever, the labour and stress of the day having sucked him dry of every bit of energy. There he was, lying in his stiff bed and staring up into the darkness, still not knowing what to do about George and the band. After having considering all the elements and angles, something was clear, though: whatever decision he made would make him feel guilty. So, guilt was not a valid criteria. That was little progress, but it was a start. Yay! 

He turned on his tiny bed, closed his eyes forcefully and buried himself deeper under the duvet. He needed to get up early the next day and couldn’t afford to sleep on his feet when working. He just had to hope he would be wiser from having slept on his situation. 

He had slept on it. 

He was a fucking idiot. 

It was watching Émile and Adèle talk during breakfast that made it click in his head. They were discussing the death of the grand-father of someone in the village, and were wondering if they could go to the funeral and come back soon enough to take care of the animals before night. The random conversation did not concern Paul and yet, it made him pause, buttered knife and slice of bread still in his hands. His breathing suddenly became ragged.

People were _dying_. Actually dying. It was an obvious observation but it had not really reached his mind yet, not in this timeline. _This_ was real life. George had had an accident. _People were dying_.

George was not dead yet. John neither. His father, Brian, Mal. Linda. Everyone. They were not dead yet. He was so traumatized from having seen them die that he had not even truly realized that simple truth.

They were fucking _alive_.

Fuck.

The memory of his last encounter with John rushed back to his mind, making him blush with shame. He had spent years whining to everyone about how much he missed John, how much he loved him and how lucky he was to have been the one working with him. And now that he had had the unimaginable chance to see him in flesh and blood again, to talk to him, to touch him, what had he done? Run away.

What a fucking idiot.

How could he let his memory of John become more important than _John himself_?

He had never been good with grief. It was ironic, in a way, that someone who had lost so many people along the years would be so terrible at handling loss. And yet, he had just never been truly able to face it. His long-proven technique had been to bury it: bury the feelings, bury the pain, forget and move on. That never worked – of course it never worked. But now that he was all alone in the countryside, trying to ‘figure himself out’, some truths just could not be ignored anymore.

He couldn’t face death because he didn’t understand it. His deep need to control everything could not extend to people’s passing and he simply just could not accept it. He had not accepted it for his mother, nor for Brian, nor for John or Linda, or his father. He had sort of accepted George’s death only because he had seen him dwindling away over the years, seen him slowly lose his life strength. He had been prepared. And yet, he still could not comprehend it.

And now, he was faced with death again in the most unnatural way possible. He was seeing people he had forced himself to forget about, people he had put in a jar in his mind that might overwhelm him would even the slightest drop be spilled. He was living with people whom he had seen die, whom he had grieved for. After their passing, he had fantasized about them. Had forgotten things and chose to remember others. He had – just like everyone would – nurtured an image of them in his mind to allow himself to move on without them with the least amount of pain possible. And those images were now being shattered. He knew things about them they didn’t. He knew the biggest mystery of their lives: the time of their death. And he was utterly alone in that knowledge. In addition to 60 years of sharable memories, it was his grief that had been ripped from him.

But they _were_ here. They were alive, breathing, healthy and hopeful. They had real dreams, real skin and bones. They had qualities and flaws he had never noticed, reactions that might not have been the same in his past. They were real people, with a real future that was not made yet. Paul knew one version of their future. But this was real life. Everything could happen. Anything. He had an absolutely unique chance to see them and to get to know them again. To share things they didn’t or couldn’t share in the past. To view their personalities and relationships with a wiser and probably kinder eye. He could actually _get them back_.

Paul put his knife down, jam dripping on his finger and his toast long forgotten. He had not even noticed Émile and Adèle were already up and clearing the table. Fuck. He could get them back.

He wasn’t going to let that opportunity slip through his fingers. No way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Hello! Good news today?  
(2) Same old. There was an explosion in the Rhône. Poor guys.  
[author's note: the Rhône is a French region. The explosion actually happened in an oil refinery]  
(3) Well, I'm off to see Lucien. Meet you back at the field later?


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank youuuu again all of you :DDD  
Apparently Google betrayed me because "rheum" should rather be called rhubarb, so rhubard pie is probably more correct (but delicious nonetheless)!   
I said it in the tags but here goes again: this is a slow burn. Like, really, reaaally slow.

Telling Émile and Adèle he was leaving had been harder than he thought. Not that they didn’t understand his reasons (missing his family, officially, which wasn’t far from the truth), or that they tried to make him stay, but when they asked if he intended to come back, he couldn’t answer. He wanted to, at some point. Living in Léchelle had been sort of a blessing for him and he had truly enjoyed his time there. He was going to miss it. But realistically, he knew that if he became a Beatle again, coming back would be quite complicated. He didn’t like saying goodbye. They all agreed he would stay three more days, just enough time to help Émile finish the fence they were fixing. 

When he left on the clouded next Sunday, promising the couple and Marguerite he would call them, he quickly discovered going back home was actually more complicated than leaving. Marguerite’s husband had kindly agreed to drive him to Arras but from there he was on his own again, sporting a full beard and full on French farmer clothes. At least he was not easily recognizable. He figured taking the plane would be easier this time, but travelling to Paris was bound to attract more attention than staying in smaller cities. He just had to count on the fact that nobody would expect to see him there, alone and looking as far from a Beatle as possible. Therefore, most people would not see him. 

After hours of various trains, he finally found himself at the airport, even though tired and stiff all over, his backpack starting to weigh on his shoulders. Seeing how easy it was to buy a ticket for London for only an hour later, he thought he was lucky in a way to be in the 60s again and not to have as many security controls. Well, as long as the plane wouldn’t go down, that is.

That far, no one had batted an eye at him, except the saleswoman at the counter who double-checked him with frowning then widening eyes when he gave her his ID. He was thus extra charming with her, hoping she would be professional enough not to bring anyone’s attention on his being here. He went to the departure lounge, making sure not to make eye contact with anyone. He was used to keep a low profile in public, but it had been a very long time since he’d taken a plane alone. He was not even sure he ever had, actually. Passing by a newspaper kiosk, he bought a copy of _The Times_, realizing just now that he had had very little news of his home country ever since he’d left. He easily found a quiet corner to settle in and flipped through the pages, hiding himself behind the paper as would a not very subtle spy.

Sure enough, he fell on a Beatles article – or rather, one on himself. Apparently, his absence had somehow been noticed, the obnoxious title “COME BACK PAUL: THE CUTE BEATLE GOING SOLO?” catching his eyes. He snorted and turned the page, not wanting to read what ridiculous theories the journalist had gone for. If the press had the faintest idea of what had actually happened, he could barely imagine the bombshell it would be. 

He had thought about it a lot the last few days. Being from the future was on its own an incredibly lonely position, but knowing no one would ever believe him made it only worse. How could they? He had no proof, besides the fact that it was _freaking impossible_. Even saying the sentence in his head made him feel insane. He could not tell anyone. Not only they wouldn’t believe him, but they would send him to a mental house. Or worse, ask questions about the future he could not – or should not – answer to. It wasn’t fair to place that burden on anyone else. 

But he also could not tame the vital desire to _tell someone_. Share it with someone and be able to lean on them, even just a little. He was a social person after all: he loved meeting people, getting to know them, diving into deep conversations about everything and anything. He also loved to be on his own and to enjoy more quiet, natural environments, but he was a people’s man. And now that he had just spent almost a month basically alone in the countryside (knowing uttering around 40 French words a day could barely count as socializing), he craved intimacy more than ever. It was a real battle in his head, a dilemma that did nothing to relieve the headache he seemed to be permanently stuck with.

An announcement for his plane made him stuff his newspaper into his banged up backpack and follow the line of people to the gate. He braced himself, deeply breathing his nerves away. Only an hour and a half and he would be home. 

After a quick sandwich, a much-needed shower and a nap, Paul found himself in his new apartment, disoriented and not really knowing what to do now. He knew he should call Brian, at least to let him know he was still alive (the irony was not lost on him), but he really did not have the strength to face his anger and disappointment at the moment. He wandered in the living-room, where his boxes were still waiting for him, most of them unopened. His gaze caught his guitar cases and his heart swelled. He rushed to one of them, opened it and gazed lovingly at his Gibson. He had missed it a ridiculous amount. Striking the hard chords immediately relaxed him, closing his eyes to enjoy the feeling. He knew in that moment that coming back was the right decision: this was his home. Music. Rhythms and melodies. How could he have ever thought otherwise? He had not only run away from his family, his friends, his job and his past, but also his passion. As if he could just draw a line on it. But playing on his guitar now just proved him how wrong he had been. He could not just _forget_ who he was. Even if the larger part of his life now caused a pain that he believed would never really go away.

He stopped playing after a couple hours, his tired mind growing more and more restless. He needed to see someone. Check on George. Reach out to Brian. Apologize to John, and to his father. Talk to Ringo. But first, he needed a car. He probably already had one, but he had no idea which one or where it actually could be. As hard as he tried to, he did not remember. Maybe he could ask his Dad? Or call Jane’s– no, better not. He could not just go and buy a new car, it was stupid, he thought as he was rinsing his hands in the sink. He reached for a towel and realized he had not unpacked any yet. He cast a glance around him at his brand new apartment.   
Oh, right. Well.

Paul got out of the brand new inconspicuous Austin Mini and stopped at the heavy gate. He was 85% sure it was the right place. More or less. He rang the doorbell and deeply breathed out to calm his wild heart. The intercom crackled.

“Yes?” A man’s voice answered.

“It’s Paul.” He ushered. Then, after a pause: “Paul McCartney.”

Paul winced at himself. The man didn’t say anything back, but the gate clicked open. Paul walked quickly up to the front door, dreading the reunion. It would be fine. He was allowed to be here. It was fine.  
He didn’t have time to knock though that the door was already opening on a laughing Ringo.

“Hey! How many Pauls do you think I know?!”

Paul found himself smiling too, feeling immediately lighter. Ringo was still Ringo, no matter the year.

“Shut up, you idiot.”

Still laughing, Ringo stood aside to let him in. Paul advanced in the hallway, observing the house he had not seen in a long, long while. Everything was just as he remembered. 

“What’s with the beard? If you hadn’t announced yourself so assiduously I wouldn’t have recognized you,” Ringo said, leading him to the living-room.

“Well, that was sort of the point,” Paul confessed, forcing himself to actually voice his thoughts.

Ringo raised an eyebrow but did not have time to probe him further when 18-year-old Maureen entered the room, smiling at Paul and carrying a baby – Zak, probably – in her arms. A child carrying another child, basically. Paul froze, befuddled by the scene. 

“Hey Paul! It’s nice to see you. What brings you here?” Maureen greeted him.

Paul blinked and gave her a kiss on the cheek, trying not to show how weird it was to see her again – and like many others, alive and so young. He was not sure he could ever get used to it.

“Just going round the neighbourhood, thought I would swing by,” He forced out, turning to the baby, he cooed: “Hello, Zak, little man!”

Ringo patted him on the back and showed him the couch. 

“’Twas a good idea. She’s right, it’s nice to see you. Sit, I’m gonna get us tea.”

Paul obeyed while Maureen was putting Zak in his playpen. Paul could not stop staring at him, playing with a toy giraffe. Last time he had seen Zak, he was at least 48 already. This was beyond weird.   
Ringo came back with a teapot under his arm, two cups in one hand and a box of biscuits in the other. He stopped in front of Paul and nodded to the teapot.

“Help me out, please.”

Paul took it and versed the tea in the cups Ringo was putting on the coffee table. Which sort of looked like Marguerite’s, Paul noticed.

“Have you seen George?” Paul asked, almost shy about it.

Ringo nodded with a smile but did not say anything. 

“How is he?” Paul pressed on.

“Yeah, he’s alright. A bit bruised all over though. Looks like he’s been in quite a brawl, but you know him. Wouldn’t complain if he’d been thrown under a bus,” Ringo said, chuckling at that last remark. “He’s not at the hospital anymore, you can visit him at his place if you want.”

Paul nodded, his throat drying at the prospect of seeing his oldest friend again. He knew he would have to, but it required a dose of courage he did not have at the moment. Maureen entered the room and sighed when she saw the coffee table.

“Why do you never use the trey?”

Ringo turned to her, already opening the box of biscuits, and shrugged.

“Didn’t need it, did I?”

Maureen rolled her eyes.

“Are you staying for dinner, Paul? I’m making bologna.”

Paul hesitated a second, but meeting Ringo’s earnest blue eyes somehow reassured him and confirmed to him that this was okay. It was okay. He had the right to be here.

“Yes, I would love to. Thank you,” He smiled at her.

She nodded and left again. Ringo, who had been silently munching his biscuit and observing Paul the whole time, piped up with a knowing.

“So. Where were you hiding?”

“…France.”

Ringo chuckled disbelievingly.

“France? What were you doing in France by yourself?”

Paul swallowed with difficulty, hoping his friend wouldn’t consider him mad or ask him things he was not comfortable talking about yet.

“I, uh… I needed space. Fresh air. I worked in a farm, it was nice, you know. Gave me time to think and all. Missed England, though.”

Ringo nodded to himself, as if that explanation was completely clear and understandable.  
Maybe he didn’t need to worry after all.

Despite Paul’s initial anxiety at seeing his old friend, dinner was nice. Ringo, true to every version of himself, was excellent company: joking but never mocking, curious but never prying, kind and light. And Maureen was just as sweet as Paul’s fond memory of her. Paul allowed himself to relax a little and enjoy the moment for what it was, i.e. a nice meal with good friends. Sure, some things and references they said were lost on him and he had trouble hiding his confusion, but overall, this was nice. 

They were deep into their second plate of pasta when the conversation naturally came to a halt. Ringo had just told him about his Christmas with Maureen’s family and that left Paul reflecting over the days preceding his departure from England.

“I broke up with Jane,” He confessed suddenly, feeling somehow guilty about it.

“I know.”

Paul frowned and realized only now that Ringo had indeed automatically assumed he had been alone in France. Ringo shrugged. 

“Brian phoned everyone to reach you. You never showed up for the Shea recording. He was dead worried. We all were, to be honest,” he explained.

“The Shea recording?”

“Yeah, they needed extra instruments tracks to cover for all the screaming. We did it anyway but everyone was quite pissed off about not having the bass.”

“I thought George Martin was going to cancel everything, to be honest. He looked beyond pissed,” Maureen chided in.

Paul felt a blush spread on his neck. This was supposed to be his job. No wonder they were pissed off. 

“I’m sorry about Jane. I didn’t know it wasn’t working between you,” Ringo offered, clearly showing he wasn’t angry at Paul. 

Paul couldn’t be more grateful. He gave him a shy smile, focusing on his pasta. There was not much to add about Jane. Thankfully, Ringo understood he didn’t want to talk about it further and focused on his food again. Paul watched him eat for a moment, feeling relieved and blessed to have such a warm and kind friend who was – literally – following him through the decades.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” Paul said quietly.

Ringo looked up and smiled with a comforting gentleness in his eyes.

“It’s okay, I’m not mad at you. I know sometimes it’s all a bit much. I can’t speak for the others, though.”

Paul grimaced.

“John?”

“You bet.”

Paul put his utensils back on the table and massaged his temple with one hand. He had naively hoped John would be over their last encounter.

“Fuck. I saw him right before I left, and I was a right bastard at that.”

“I figured something happened, because he’s been a right bastard too. You couldn’t say a word to him all day. And anyone who would even pronounce your name would end up at the stake.”

Maureen nodded with a bitter chuckle.

“I’m so sorry,” Paul repeated to both of them, genuine.

“It’s not me you should say that to, apparently,” Ringo mused.

Paul groaned and took his head in his hands. He knew he was right. No matter how long he was putting it off, he would have to face John at some point. Even if for some reason, the thought alone utterly terrified him.


	9. Chapter 9

It turned out keeping yourself busy was very hard when you were not in the right year.

Since he had woken up for the first time in his new place, Paul had been pretty much lost and disoriented. He did not know what to do. He couldn’t phone his kids, see his acquaintances (a lot of them were not even born yet), browse the internet, prepare a new album or just carry on with about any daily activity he had in 2019. The only thing he could really do was to play music, which was what he had done late into the night after his visit to Ringo. Now that it was a new day though, the prospect of having nothing planned was a bit distressing. After a rather sad breakfast of rancid oatmeal (he really needed to explore the neighbourhood and find a supermarket before he starved to death), he ended up finally unpacking the rest of his things he had thrown carelessly in boxes when he had left Jane’s place. 

What he thought would be a quick activity turned out to take his whole morning. He took time to rediscover the items one by one, the clothes, the books, the souvenirs. Touching them, choosing what to do with them and where to put them had a strangely therapeutic effect on him. He barely had any furniture yet – just a couch, a bed, a single wardrobe, a stove and a fridge – so most things he had to just put somewhere on the floor but it was nice to decide for himself. To be in control of his own environment. This was his apartment; not the apartment of 1965 Paul or 2019 Paul. It was right now Paul’s. His.

When everything was more or less out of the boxes, his growling stomach reminded him that he was supposed to eat, at some point. As he was too lazy and even too anxious yet to go out and face the rest of the world, he just cooked the zucchinis he’d got from Émile, sitting on the old red couch the previous tenant had left. He needed to get a table. And chairs. He definitely should get a piano. Things that could allow him to live properly and to write music comfortably. As he was listing the things in his mind, he realized thinking about arranging his apartment was indeed quite soothing. He needed to take care of his mind, to find purpose not to let his thoughts overwhelm him. He needed new goals. Perhaps he should even start a list? His granddaughters loved that, keeping notebooks and writing lists about pretty much anything on it. They said it helped them keep their thoughts clear and organized. Maybe that was just what he needed. Music and a notebook. 

And to call George. Or even better, see him.

He knew postponing it was stupid and could only make him more and more anxious. Knowing George was alright from other people would not appease his mind as much as seeing him with his own two eyes. He had asked Ringo to give him a list of the telephone numbers and addresses of everyone they knew – under the pretence that he had lost them during the moving. So really, he had no excuse. But if seeing Ringo was one thing, seeing any of the ‘dead ones’ as he couldn’t help but to think about them in his head was a whole different kettle of fish. 

George had always been special to him. Like a baby brother. Their relationship had been quite strained over the years and maybe this was his chance to fix things between them – or more accurately to salvage them before they got too bad. He had taken him for granted once; he would not do the same mistake this time.

Acting before he could have second thoughts about it, Paul went to the phone and pulled out the list Ringo had given him from the pocket of his coat. The phone rang several times before someone picked up.

“Yes?” Said George’s unmistakable slow voice.

“Hi. It’s me. Paul. I have a new number.”

An awkward beat passed. 

“Uh… Okay,” George chuckled. “You’ll have to give it to me then.”

“Or you could just look up your incoming calls, you know.”

“What?”

Paul cursed at himself. January 1966. _January 1966_. Of course George couldn’t just ‘look up the incoming calls’.

“Nevermind. How are you?” Paul rushed to say.

“I’m alright.” Paul sighed of relief until George added: “Better than last week.”

Paul winced. 

“Yeah, I uh… I’m sorry, I should have called sooner. Or come sooner. I wasn’t in the country and… You know. I’m sorry.”

He heard George humming in the phone.

“Don’t be, it’s alright. I didn’t die or anything,” He reassured him – which of course did not reassure Paul at all and just increased his headache. “What about you then? I thought you had headed for the hills for good this time. We missed you at New Year’s.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I should have called you, all of you. I needed some time away but I shouldn’t have left… like _that_. I’m really sorry,” Paul answered, sliding along the wall, a hand over his suddenly stinging eyes.

“Mate, stop apologizing. Seriously.”

“Yeah right, sorry.”

“Paul.”

“Yes! Yes, okay. I stop. I’ve stopped, see?” Paul chuckled. “Do you… Are you at home today? Could I stop by for a while?”

Some ruffling and white noise on the other side of the phone told him George was probably covering it with his hand. Then his drawl came back full force.

“Sorry, Pattie was leaving. Yeah sure, come around if you want. I was just gonna play a little anyway.”

His sentence resonated in Paul’s mind and an idea slowly formed. Maybe that was the perfect occasion to start ‘mending’ their friendship. 

“Speaking of that,” He started, feeling suddenly very self-conscious. “Are you writing these days?”

“Uh… Sort of. Yeah. But it’s nothing really like, finished, or anything.”

Paul starting nervously twining the telephone cord around his finger. 

“Would you like… Maybe try and see if we could… Because we never did, did we, you know, so I thought maybe we could… Or just play a little, see where it goes? Not necessarily, you know, like proper writing, but just. Maybe only play what you have… Or me… You know, see if it’s good?”

“What are you talking about?” His friend asked, sounding very confused.

The cord was so tight around his finger that it was almost purple. Paul cleared his throat and dereeled it. He just needed to jump with it.

“Would you like us to write together, sometime?” Paul clarified, his heart beating in his ears. “It doesn’t have to be like with me and John or anything, but we could. You know, try it?”

The growing silence on George’s end did nothing to help his nerves.

“We could, yeah,” George finally answered collectedly. “Why not.”

Paul released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. A start was a start.

Just like in childhood memories where everything seems gigantic, George’s house was weirdly way smaller than in the memory he’d kept of it. Or maybe it just seemed huge because he was dreading seeing him again. _Actually_ seeing him. Not just acknowledging his presence.  
Once at the door, he knocked three times, feeling very solemn. Almost immediately after, he heard steps coming closer and someone unlocking the door. _It’s fine_, he repeated to himself one last time, taking a deep breath. _It’s just George_. The door opened. 

It wasn’t George. 

“What are you doing here?” Paul blurted out.

John froze, hand still on the doorknob, but schooled his features instantly and leant against the door.

“George, your lovely guest is here!” He called out towards the house, his eyes not leaving Paul’s.

Paul looked down, feeling his face burning. Shit. Why couldn’t he act normal for once? In front of him, John was still studying him from head to toe.

“Sorry I… I didn’t expect to see you, that’s all,” Paul offered quietly.

“Yeah. You never do these days,” John said on a strangely level tone. 

Paul was about to answer when other steps announced the arrival of George. The bruises on his cheek had started to fade but were still impressive and Paul struggled not to startle. He had a nasty scar on his chin that was still healing and moved cautiously, as if making sure not to hurt himself.

“Hey Paul, come in. Don’t mind Johnny here, he forgot his manners,” George amiably welcomed him, not noticing – or not caring about – Paul’s staring.

“How is this my fault?” John frowned, letting Paul pass him by to enter the house.

Paul tried to calm his wild heart by breathing slowly but his hands were slightly shaking. This was not what was planned. He was not prepared to see John. What was he even doing here?!  
He followed George to the living-room where the TV was on with some black-and-white show. There were two beers on the coffee table and an almost finished bowl of crisps.

“You’ve started early I see,” Paul tried to joke, feeling his voice catch in his throat.

George just chuckled and went to sit slowly on the couch, holding his ribs. 

“I was just watching TV but John came up with beers, so. We can’t let them go to waste, can we?”

“It would be a shame indeed. A national dishonour,” John added when entering the room too. 

He took one of the beers and went to plump down next to George, completely ignoring Paul who was still standing stupidly in front of them. He finally opted to sit in the green wing chair on the side. They were just his old friends. He knew them well – or at least, he _had_ known them. He could do this.  
Next to him, George and John were fighting like children for the remaining crisps. 

“Stop eating everything, I haven’t even had any yet,” John groaned, trying to pull the bowl out of George’s fierce grip.

“This is my house, remember? And I’m injured, I need them to get my strength back,” George answered on an overly lecturing tone.

“And I deserve them for very kindly coming to put up with you.”

“Alright, alright,” George relented, chewing the very final crisps. “I’ll get more. Be nice, kids.”

He got up – with difficulty – and left the room with the bowl in his hands. Paul had the urge to force him to sit down and go in his place, but he found himself stuck in his seat. John watched George leave and then turned his eyes to Paul, an unreadable look in them. His hair was softly falling over his eyes but this time he was wearing his thick-rimmed glasses. Paul hadn’t seen him like that in a long, long time. The two of them stayed like that a long time, just staring at one another until it got too much for Paul. Feeling unnerved by John’s unwavering gaze, he shuffled on his seat.

“What?”

“You’re wearing my shirt,” John simply stated.

Out of reflex, Paul reached for his chest and looked down to his polka dot shirt. He was indeed. He had actually been wearing it a lot, but John didn’t need to know that.

“Well, it’s mine now, isn’t it,” He settled on answering.

The tiniest smile graced John’s lips, which he tried to cover almost immediately. Still, it was a sight for sore eyes.

“It is.”

Noises in the hallway made Paul snap out of his reverie. 

“Look, John, I’m sorry for what I told you last time. I didn’t mean it. You’re always welcome to my house,” Paul apologized, struggling to maintain John’s intense eye contact.

John didn’t answer and just looked at him some more as if he was dead set on looking disimpassioned. And all the years Paul had spent next to him did not help him at all to know what he was truly feeling. Maybe he’d lost practice, too. At that moment George came back with an overflowing bowl and settled back down on the couch.

“So, Paul,” He started, visibly not aware of the awkwardness between his friends. Paul’s gaze gladly drifted to him. “Did you at least bring me something from France? Like a magnet or—”

“You were in France?!” John suddenly interrupted, with more emotions on his face than he’d had since Paul had arrived (even if Paul could not quite recognize them).

Paul glanced back to him. 

“Yeah, in the country. And no, sorry George. If I had known I would have brought you a helmet with baguettes on it.”

George laughed but stopped quickly, a wince covering his features and his hand going straight to his ribs. Paul frowned, sitting straighter in an unconscious attempt to get closer to his friend.

“When are your ribs going to get better?” He asked gently.

“They said a month or two but there’s nothing much we can do,” George shrugged. “Just rest. At least I can still play, would have gone insane otherwise.”

Paul hummed and looked at his own hands. They were not shaking anymore, at least. He heard the couch squeaking when John got up, going to the TV to turn up the sound, effectively ending the conversation. He then went back to his seat, propping his feet on the coffee table while George was settling in deeper into the cushions, both staring at the TV. Paul welcomed the distraction to get a few crisps himself and discreetly observe his friends. They seemed calm: George was laughing softly to the characters on screen, his hand perpetually in the bowl, his bowl cut hugging his bony face. Despite his scars and bruises, he looked good. Healthy and happy. John’s features were significantly less open. His darkened eyes were fixing the TV so steadily Paul doubted he was really seeing it. He was broader than the last time Paul had seen him, that was for sure. His cheeks and lips were fuller and his cheekbones far less prominent too. _He’s only 25_, Paul reminded himself as John was throwing him a curious glance.   
Only 25.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eternal thank yous forever!

On the notebook Paul had bought before going to George’s place, he had prepared a list. He had not found a title for it, not even a header, and he figured it was better that way. If anyone found it, they would just think it was a random list of things to do or to think about. Nothing curious about it.  
On it, there were not that many things.

1 – Call Dad.  
2 – Buy furniture. And a piano.  
3 – Find some decorations (and not ugly old things).  
4 – Write at least one song a week.

And a little further down, in a slightly wobbly writing. 

5 – Do not make the same mistakes again.

The lads had started smoking pot after a while, and really Paul should not have been surprised. He had politely declined, trying not to react to their puzzled faces and the laughter that seemed to bubble so much more easily out of them. It was weird in a way, to be out of it, but it made watching them more interesting than watching the actual movie. How they both seemed to melt into the couch, finishing each’s other jokes and not even realizing that they sometimes made no sense at all. 

John had left soon after the end of the movie, pretexting Cynthia was waiting for him at home and that he didn’t want to attract her wrath. Paul suspected it was not the only reason, if John’s apparent decision not to talk to him for the remainder of his stay was anything to go by. And the fact he had barely looked at him before leaving. Paul was conflicted by his departure: on one side, he was relieved but on the other, it was nice to see the three of them could still function together. Quite normally, even – even if Paul was more often than not lost when they were talking amongst themselves. It would take time, but he could get to know them again. For once, he had a good feeling about it. 

But there was still a long way to go. The friendship he most desperately wanted to mend was undoubtedly George’s. He’d seen the interviews, read everything he could find, even the most hurtful things. He knew how much he had hurt his friend and the impact his indifference – or rather, his disregard – had had on their relationship. It had always been a bit hard to fully comprehend, his own memories not quite matching George’s. Sometimes, he could not see at all what had bothered George in the first place. But he guessed that was the whole point. 

Leaving his car with his guitar case in hand, Paul went back to the living-room where George had taken out his guitar and was mindlessly strumming on it. Paul set the case down and went straight on the floor, sitting cross-legged. God, it was so good to be able to do that in a second.

“What’s happened between you and John?” George asked suddenly, without even looking up from his instrument. 

“Just a little row last time we saw each other. It’s nothing.”

And it _was_ nothing, really. If anything, it was John who had lost his temper and shouted at him, he thought. George looked at him but didn’t answer right away. 

“Well, you did leave the country right after your row, so I guess ‘nothing’ is relative, these days,” He finally voiced.

Feeling ashamed and cornered, Paul opened his mouth to snap at him that it had nothing to do with him, but stopped himself at the last second. He breathed deeply. _Do not make the same mistakes again_. Even if it meant going against his instincts to fiercely hide and protect everything that had to do with John. That had always been his reflex, after all.

“I don’t really want to talk about it to be honest,” He confessed with difficulty. “I apologized to John, but I don’t know how he feels about it yet. Or me.”

George arched his brows but simply smiled. It looked so genuine Paul felt whiplashed. They were both surprised, here.

“Fair enough,” He said.

Paul tried not to let out a heavy sigh. It puzzled him how frustrating it could be to be honest. As if, somehow, he had wanted to get angry. It probably would have been easier.  
In front of him, George had started playing a tune Paul didn’t know. Well actually… it did sound kind of familiar, didn’t it? Very vaguely, but the rhythm was there. After a few more notes, he was sure of it. He knew that tune. But…

“How are you playing this already?” He asked, not fully realizing he was talking out loud, caught in deep puzzlement.

George stopped playing and looked up, clearly very confused. 

“What?”

Paul’s eyes snapped up, suddenly back to the present. As long as he didn’t get too specific, it felt safe enough to probe a little.

“That song… Do you have a name for it?” He asked.

“Hum… No, no. It’s not a song, just notes. You know,” George retorted, a bit embarrassed.

Paul nodded, thinking it best not to push further. He opened his guitar case instead, his fingers trembling with excitation already. It felt good, this. Just playing, having George near him, not caring about what was coming next. Trying very hard not to think about how much his kids would have loved to see where he was right now.

“So, do you have something in mind?” He asked casually, dying to have anything to keep his mind busy.

George shrugged but didn’t stop playing. 

“Nothing special. Do you?”

Paul almost wanted to laugh. He had not thought of any new song since he had woken up in 1965.

“Not really, no,” He revealed.

George kept on playing another tune, ignoring him. Paul suddenly felt annoyed and stopped himself from puffing out. The lad was not making it any easier, was he? Was he supposed to just watch him play around? He could do that, sure, but not if George didn’t even acknowledge his presence. He tried following George’s aimless melody, getting a faint feel of it. The other seemed happy enough with that, and even turned slightly towards Paul. They fumbled each on their instruments for a while, George murmuring words into his chest, as if he did not dare say them any louder. And if Paul thought about it, it made sense that he would not. But suddenly George stumbled on a chord, tried it again a couple of times with a slight frown between his thick eyebrows, and then shifted to another melody entirely.

Paul stared at him, his fingers hovering over his own guitar. 

“Why did you change? I liked that one. It’s good,” He told him.

George shrugged. His body language screamed embarrassment, so Paul tried to take on a softer voice. 

“It has a nice rhythm to it.”

“No, it doesn’t,” George said blankly. Then, as if trying to please Paul: “I don’t like it enough.”

Paul watched him and his sure fingers plucking the strings. It suddenly felt as if he had never seen George play before.

“That’s not true,” He let out in a whisper.

“Paul. Leave it,” George stated, his tone unwaveringly firm.

Paul felt embarrassed, but also a bit angry. God, what had he done wrong again?!

“I’m just trying to help,” He said calmly but with slightly gritted teeth.

“Well, don’t.”

Paul didn’t push it, feeling weirdly left out. 

He had naively – and quite probably stupidly – thought working with George had to be somewhat similar to working with John. With John, it had always been the definition of easy. Quick, natural, mutual. Thinking back to the 1966 he had already lived, he believed he had been close enough to George to try and find the same kind of sharing. But that was not taking into account how complex of a person George could be. No matter how close to him you thought you were, he was always one step ahead, ready to slip through your fingers with a smile and a crack. Paul really should not be surprised. Maybe he didn’t have him all figured out, after all. And maybe, _maybe_, it wasn’t such a bad thing. 

Even if right now, he felt about to boil over.

Deciding this was enough music for now (apparently not even it could save his inadequacy), he put his guitar back down in its case. Feeling suddenly too big, he brought his legs closer to his chest and clapped his arms around them, letting his back rest against the wing chair. George cast a glance at him but did not comment it and focused on tuning his guitar again. The silence between them grew and left Paul feeling uncomfortable.

“So you’ve had a lot of visits then, since your accident,” Paul suddenly said with more force than necessary. “That’s nice.”

“Not that many,” George, making a pensive face. “Brian, Rings. George Martin called. Mal, too.”

Paul hummed, balancing himself a little on the floor.

“John had not come before today either, if that’s what you’re thinking,” George added shrewdly.

Paul frowned slightly but did not respond, feeling weirdly embarrassed. Well, he was not talking about John now, was he.  
George looked at him, bit on his lip as if he was hesitating about something, and put down his guitar as well. He clapped his hands together and breathed deeply before looking at Paul.

“I have something to ask you,” He announced.

Paul raised his eyebrows invitingly.

“You know, Pattie and I—“ George started.

“Fuck, yes, the wedding! I’m so sorry,” Paul cut him off, throwing a hand on his head. “God, I thought about it the other day, you know, I hope I haven’t missed it…”

George stared at him with a startled frown. Seeing the growing fear in his eyes, realization came upon Paul that he had seriously blown it.

“What?!” George asked with a quivering voice. “How did you…?” 

Fuck. Jesus Fucking Christ. He needed an excuse, quick. Anything to appease George. He could not tell him, he could not ruin everything already.

“Are you getting married?” He blurted out, not smooth at all.

If possible, George’s frown became even deeper.

“Yes, but you seemed to know that already. How?”

“… I read it. Figured it was true, knowing… you know. You two?”

Paul stared at George, hoping very hard that he looked truthful enough. Even if he probably also looked scared as hell. George studied him for a while, visibly at odds with that information. He looked so positively mystified Paul was suddenly sure he would not let this go. This was it. His improbable secret was out already. He had not even lasted two months…

“…Okay. Well. Do you want to be my best man, then?” George suddenly said, very slowly. 

Paul just stared at him, confusion and relief flooding through him. If his friend was not going to poke him further, he just had to jump on the occasion. He could not help the huge grin taking up his face.

“Yes! Yes, I… Yes, I would love to!”

Apparently amused by his enthusiasm, George chuckled. But when Paul got up from his spot, he could swore he saw distrust in his eyes. 

All things considered, fitting into the 1960s again was not exactly as hard as Paul would have thought. He had had to go out and buy some actual t-shirts (God, how many long-sleeved shirts could one man possess) and felt incredibly frustrated when the TV would go off at night, or just when he wanted to watch anything other the only two freaking channels, but other than that, it was not that different from 2019. Sure, people looked different. And talked differently. And had whole other references. And were frighteningly narrow-minded on a lot of subjects. And Paul often had to bite his tongue hard not to snap or say time-inappropriate things whenever he talked to salespeople or to his neighbours. 

Well. Actually, it _was_ quite hard.

But the radio at least was _great_. Less screens too, which was rather good for his vision. And in a curious way, time passed differently. It seemed more peaceful, longer and fuller. Paul felt like he actually had time to do things. He knew it was an illusion; soon enough, he would go back to Beatles obligations and face the Beatlemania full force again. He did not know yet how he felt about that, but one thing was sure: he would not run away from his problems again. He had missed his Beatle days, there was no point lying about that. He had missed the closeness with his bandmates, the artistic emulation, so he figured finding some of that back could be a good experience. Nevertheless, the thought of living the same things again made him extremely weary. And how would things between him and John work if they kept being so awkward with each other? Thinking about it too much was never a good idea. For now, he just needed to focus on trying to write with George again. No need to think further. 

He was proud of what he’d done this far. He had called his father and apologized. The discussion had not been very pleasant – his father pointing out to him that he wasn’t running some hotel he could just leave from with barely any warning – but hearing the old man’s voice was so precious to Paul that he did not really care if he was just scolding him. It was better than silence. 

He had finally bought some furniture as well. And although it took some strong convincing skills from Paul, George had finally agreed to meet up with him a few days later to try and see if they could come up with a song together. Paul was very nervous about it, feeling an old pressure from his past life lingering on his mind. If he could ‘fix’ anything from his old life, if there was one thing he truly regretted, it was his relationship with George. In truth, there _were_ other things he regretted, cowering in the back of his mind. 

But he was definitely not ready to face any of them yet.


	11. Chapter 11

1\. _England will win the Football world cup (against Germany, I think? Or maybe Portugal)_.

Paul was awoken by the phone ringing. It was destabilizing, not to recognize your own phone. To wake up and to be, for a dozen or so of seconds, completely disoriented about the world. To think, for a moment, that you know precisely when and where you are, where you are supposed to be, only to realize that you are wrong. To open your eyes and let your senses catch up with you, only to find that you are lost. Lost in a new and unsettling environment. And once that realization settles in, once the disappointment is there, there is no going back. Paul was starting to know that feeling very well. He’d been feeling it every morning for exactly two months, now. The night before had been particularly agonizing, having had the marvellous idea to watch the photos of his brother and him when they were babies while drinking some very fine whisky, which only led him to think about his nieces and nephews. And to his own family. And from then on, the alcohol helping, it was no surprise that he’d ended up the night with a shaky hand, empty bottles and a tremendous nausea. 

When the phone seemed to have been ringing for hours already, Paul begrudgingly dragged himself out of bed. If drinking had seemed like a good idea the night before, he was sure as hell regretting it now. Nevermind the fact that judging from the bright sun outside, it was way later than the time he usually woke up. He went to the phone, momentarily confused by the chord linking it to the base and pulling on it as if it would just disappear.

“Hello?” He groaned sleepily, still pulling without thinking on the chord to have more space to move.

Which of course made the base fall from the side table. Paul cursed at himself.

“Hi,” Came the single, quiet response. 

Paul frowned, slumping into the couch as much as the chord allowed him to.

“Who’s this?”

A silence followed. 

“Hello?”

“It’s John,” The voice said, sounding somewhat accusatory.

Paul felt immensely stupid. Even if he would not confess it under torture, he had… in a way, one could say… sort of avoided John, a little bit. He knew his quick excuse at George’s place was not the greatest apology ever, and John had certainly not looked he thought it was enough. But for some reason, he just could not bring himself to go to him. It was stupid, really, but John scared him. Or rather, he was scared of his own behaviour with him. This was brand new territory; more than with anyone else in this version of the present, his relationship with John was totally unbalanced. There were decades of intense, sometimes very painful feelings on his side that did not exist on John’s. And the John from now, from the little he had witnessed this far, was incredibly far both from his memories and from the John he had last known in 1980.

So he had just allowed himself to conclude that, _at some point_, he would end up having news from John again and he would deal with it then. Foolishly, he had not expected that moment to come so soon, though. And it was surprising, too. In his memory, John had rather been the “once bitten, twice shy” kind of guy. Guess that was another reason to stop relying on his memories altogether.

“Oh!” He let out, trying to sound more happy than scared. “Hi. How… How are you?”

“Alright.”

Paul waited for more. After a few seconds of embarrassed silence, he realized John could literally let this drag forever. 

“Good, good,” Paul responded, his voice sounding painfully loud compared to John’s. “Well, uh… What’s up, then?”

“Do you want to write this afternoon? Brian says we should prepare the recordings.”

John’s voice was cold in a way that made his insides twist uneasily.

“I… I can’t. I’m sorry, George’s coming to mine in a few,” Paul answered hesitantly, looking at the clock on his wall.

Something told him he was treading in a very dangerous territory.

“Is he?” John simply said after a small blank. 

Bad bad bad bad bad.

“Just, you know. To hang out, play a little,” He answered breathily. If he wanted to stay on good bases, he needed to be honest. He forced himself to add: “And we might try and see if we can maybe find a tune or something, you know. Because we’ve never really done it before, have we.”

John didn’t answer right away. 

“Oh,” he finally said with a strangely shy voice. 

A cold shiver went down Paul’s spine. He was very much awake now. He remembered enough to know a quiet John was rarely a good sign. 

“You know, just to see how it goes,” he added with caution. “It’s not like, a thing, you know. But he’s writing great stuff now so I thought it could be interesting–“

“Yeah yeah, whatever,” John cut him sharply. “You do what you want, mate.”

Paul didn’t like that very much. Alarms started ringing in his head, but he failed to find any good words of reassurance. And somewhere in his head, he knew nothing could really reassure John right now if he felt abandoned. Paul felt overwhelmingly guilty, but John was not a child. Paul was not doing anything wrong – and he _had_ apologized for his stupid behaviour in December. There was no reason to let George down just to please John. Was there?

“But I can come to yours later, or tomorrow? Or even on Wednesday?” He scrambled to propose. 

“No. We’re going on vacation with Cyn.”

John’s tone was sharp and unequivocal. Paul swallowed with difficulty, suddenly feeling his eyes sting. 

“Okay. And, when are you coming back, then?”

“In ten days.”

“Oh. That’s nice. Where are you—“

“I have to go,” John cut him off abruptly. “Enjoy George.”

And with that he hung up. Paul stayed frozen in place.

2\. _There will be a big flood of mud in Florence towards the end of the year (pretty sure it’s this year)_.

He knew it was stupid but he regretted every single decision he’d made in his life.

Maybe telling the truth had not been the smartest move. But he was not doing anything wrong, was he? It would have been worse if John had found out about George and him later, right? Paul slowly put the phone down on its base, the twisted chord lying sadly across the floor. This was not supposed to be so hard. He was trying to prevent a relationship from falling apart and all he managed to do was precipitate the collapse of another one. It was like an endless succession of disastrous encounters. And the only common denominator was Paul himself.

He got up and started pacing in the apartment, messing up his hair in a nervous manner. No. He couldn’t let John leave for ten days thinking Paul didn’t want to spend time with him. He could not lose him. Not again. It was not debatable in his mind; he could not lose John. But how to get over the weirdness between them if each time they talked Paul only seemed to disappoint him over and over again? There was a barrier between them that he could not seem to be able to shake off. He needed to find something, a way to make John understand that he was just as important to him as George or anyone else. To make him see that Paul still cared. He looked at the clock again and realized George would be arriving any minute now. He needed to shave and get dressed. And to calm down. 

He went to his room and grabbed his pants on the bed, which made some of the pictures he had left lying around fall to the ground. One of them caught his eye and he picked it up. 

It showed John and him back at Forthlin Road, in their old living-room. On it, we could only see Paul’s profile, in the middle of a sentence and sending a glance to the photographer, certainly Mike. Leaning onto the chimney, John was laughing and pulling at Paul’s arm while looking at him. It was not a great picture; a bit blurry, with the framing all wrong, but Paul had not seen in so long he had completely forgotten its existence. The moment felt familiar, though, and was probably taken in early 1960. He concentrated on their faces and their clothes. On the details that could be noticed in the background. On their arms and John’s theatrical position. A flash crossed Paul’s mind. Actually, no, he did remember that day – they were just coming back from seeing Ben-Hur and they were imitating the moment of the chariot race when Charlton Heston is trying to pull the other competitor’s whip. So that had to have been at the end of 1959. He smiled fondly at the picture, happy to have at least another tiny memory back. John trusted him, back then. More than anyone, probably. And he had been beyond proud to earn that trust. 

Staring at the picture, an idea slowly formed in his mind and a smile grew on his face. Maybe… Maybe that was it. He had never had secrets for John and now he was constantly pushing him away. He had to gain his trust back. He needed it. And he knew how to do it. It was absolutely, undoubtedly mad – probably his stupidest decision since he’d arrived here. But he knew in his heart it was the right thing to do.

3\. _The Rolling Stones will release an album called “Aftermath” at some point in the spring with at least the songs called “Lady Jane” (and it is incredible) and “I Am Waiting” on it_.

His afternoon playing with George had gone rather well. They had not finished anything yet, but they did have a lead for a song that could actually be quite good – and Paul was happy not to recognize it at all. They were not totally comfortable with each other yet, but Paul was glad (and even a bit humbled) to discover the more creative side of his friend. He had known of it in the later years and seeing it now with his own two eyes was an eye-opening experience. He only hoped his enthusiasm and bossiness had not shown too much yet. Better not scare the poor lad off.

But George having left later than planned, Paul needed to hurry if he wanted to do what he wanted. His hands were shaking so much for a moment he thought his blood pressure was dropping again but soon realized he was actually nervous as hell. And frightened as rarely before. He was betting a lot on this idea and there was no insurance in the outcome. But he wanted to do it – he had waited long than enough to do it, and he wanted it to work so bad he had no idea what he would do if it didn’t. 

Once he had everything he needed, he put on his coat, took his keys and swept his eyes one last time around the room. He was ready.

4\. _Montgomery Clift will die in July of a heart attack_.

Here he was again, standing in front of a door, his moist hand clenching the fragile piece of paper in his left pocket. He felt like a schoolboy going round his friends’ houses after school to play with them. Was it unusual? He did not really remember – years tended to blend sometimes and his teenage years did not always seem that far away. Maybe his behaviour was completely out of character. But then again, there was not much he could do about it, now.  
The door opened on a blond woman whose gentle smile he had not seen in a long while.

“Hi Cynthia,” He greeted her with a nervous smile of his own.

With surprise clear on her pretty face, Cynthia stood aside immediately, her smile only growing.

“Paul! How are you doing? Do you want to come in?”

“I would like to, ta,” Paul nodded.

He followed her inside and found himself face to face with a tiny boy peering up at him very seriously. A wave of unsuspected emotions came over Paul, who crouched in front of him before he had even realized it.

“Hey Jules,” He said softly, feeling tears stinging his eyes. Then, with a small laugh: “God, you’re so small…”

Cynthia closed the door and came up behind him, holding onto the handrail of the staircase with a fond expression.

“Oh he’s growing up pretty quick, don’t worry.”

Paul did not answer, unable to detach his eyes from the little Lennon. He just wanted to scoop him up in his arms but seeing how shaky he was, it was probably not the best idea.

“Sorry the house is a bit of a mess, I guess John told you but we’re going to the Trinidad tomorrow. I need to finish packing but I’m going to tell John you’re here, yeah?” Cynthia explained, going for the staircase and looking at Paul.

“Sure, no problem. Thank you, again,” Paul smiled to her, his nerves coming back full force again.

With a last nod, Cynthia disappeared upstairs. As Julian was trotting back to the kitchen, Paul simply followed him and watched him slump back down where he had left his tractor toy. Feeling his tension spread out to his legs, Paul sat cross-legged in front of him and did not hear the footsteps approaching. 

“What are you doing here? I told you we were leaving.”

Paul turned. John was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed and cold expression on his face. This would not be easy. Paul breathed deeply, trying to find something to put his gaze onto before he settled for watching John instead. Which did not help his heart calm down. 

“I… I have something to tell you,” Paul said in a cautious voice.

John raised a sceptical eyebrow.

“I’m listening,” He answered, barely humouring him.

Paul sighed and looked at the table.

“Do you want to sit? It’s… uh, you might need to be sitting.”

John huffed impatiently. 

“I’m fine where I am, now, spit it out.”

“Okay okay, yeah, sorry,” Paul nodded. “Uh… I’m… I’m not from here.”

“What?” John simply frowned. 

Paul took another shaky breath. Clarity. He needed clarity.

“No, I mean… I’m… Okay. Hum. I know you think I’ve been weird for the last two months and, and you’re right, you know. I have. I am. And you saw it, I know it. Like, I don’t smoke or, or… I don’t eat meat. I know you’ve noticed. I… I didn’t mean to push you away all this time, I just… Something happened to me.”

John’s frown deepened and he started uncrossing his arms, his whole defensive demeanour slowly morphing into one of worry.

“What do you mean? What happened to you?”

Pearls of anxiety were starting to pool in his eyes but Paul pushed through it.

“Do you remember when I bumped into you in the lift, back in Cardiff? I… When I went to bed, the night before that day, I… I was 77. I was living with my wife in Scotland, I just had had dinner with my son and. And… it was summer 2019. And I don’t know… I really, really I don’t know what happened but… Something happened, and… _Somehow_, I woke up here. You know, in 1966. Or, I mean, it was 1965, then, but, whatever. I woke up here… with all of you. And I… That’s when I ran into you and – and got the concussion? I don’t know how, I know it’s fucking impossible but I know what I lived, it’s all here, 54 years in my mind.” Paul pointed a finger at his own head and was not surprised to see it was violently shaking. “And now I’m here. And I shouldn’t be.”

Paul stopped, desperately needing air and some more countenance. He could not quite read the look on John’s face. He was staring at him, all frown and parted lips, with an intensity Paul had never seen before.  
Between them, on the floor, Julian was still playing with his tractor, cooing softly at it, but neither of them was paying attention to it. Paul could not help the small burst of nervous laughter that erupted out of him, trying very hard not to let it turn into a sob.

“I… I know you’ll think I’m insane but I’m telling you this because… Because I need you to believe me, John. I _need_ you to. You’re still one of the most important people in my life, I trust you and I always have, and it’s… I know you can’t believe me right now. It’s impossible to believe, really. Even I don’t, not really, sometimes. But I’m not… I’m not insane, I haven’t lost the plot yet. Look.”

He shoved his hand in his pocket and retrieved the piece of paper from it. He unfolded it and stepped forward, taking John’s arm to put the paper in his hand. 

“This is, um… I made this list,” Paul started explaining, having trouble keeping his voice perfectly level. “They are things that are going to happen. Or rather, that should happen, normally. They have nothing to do with me, or with any of us, you know, so they have no reason to change in this, uh… timeline? I wanted to put more, you know, but I’m not quite sure about some dates and I didn’t have Google to check and I want… Uh… I would like you to keep this list and, um, and just. Read it. But not now. I mean, you can, but you’ll understand better in a few months.” 

John glanced at the list and looked back up again, the clear confusion in his eyes becoming daunting for Paul.

“If in six months or something you read that list and realize nothing is true, then I guess you can put me in a mental house, you know,” Paul added with another sad laugh. “Or we can just forget about all of that and never talk about it again. But… I really hope this will help you believe me because otherwise there’s nothing I can think of that can.”

Paul finished talking, his mouth dry from having talked to long and his head spinning from stress. John kept staring at him, his hand still outstretched with the list in it.  
Between them, Julian got up to push his tractor around the table. The creaking wheels of the toy were the only noise in the room.

5\. _Walt Disney will die too, but around Christmas. I think… I think we all lost a bit of our innocence, then_.


	12. Chapter 12

The silence was stretching, absorbing the last remnants of Paul’s calmness. It suddenly came to him that by confessing this, he had completely surrendered himself to John. His future was now in John’s hands, his whole life, really. He had just named him judge, jury and executioner of his mental state, and more. It all depended on the next words that would come out of his thin mouth. He felt himself paling even more, sweat rolling unpleasantly along his spine. It was insane. Why had he done that?! 

After what felt like whole minutes, John looked down at the list again and read it very carefully. Feeling like his legs would not be able to hold him up any longer, Paul sat down on a chair, taking his head into his hands. 

“So…” 

Paul snapped his head up to look at John, who was still intensely watching the list.

“You’re saying that… you’re from … the future? That’s… that’s what you’re saying, right?”

Paul waited for John to look at him before nodding slowly. The tension was sick in the air, but at least John wasn’t laughing. Even if a weird look was slowly taking place in his eyes.

“Did you take something?” John suddenly asked.

Without even realizing it, Paul banged his fist against the table, the frustration needing to come out. He wanted to scream. He nearly did.

“No!” He started with force, then lowering his voice to an almost painful whisper: “I’m not on fucking drugs...”

“Are you sure? Maybe… maybe someone gave something to you.”

Paul’s breath got caught in his throat and he felt the sudden urge to cry. He didn’t believe him. Of course he didn’t believe him… What had he been thinking? No one could believe that. How stupid could he be…  
John’s gentle hand on his arm pulled him out of his intrusive thoughts.

“No Paul, listen to me. In what you remember, from… from before. Did anyone give something to you? I mean… It has to be because of something, you know?”

Paul blinked at him. Then, relief crashed so hard into him he had to force himself back to reality. He looked into John’s earnest eyes, the concern in them. He took him seriously. He actually took him seriously. Paul had never loved him more in his entire life. He cleared his throat, trying to focus on John’s question.

“Uh… No? No, I… I don’t think so. Everything was just normal,” He tried to remember.

“But… why now? Why is it like… _that_, now?” John insisted, visibly struggling with that idea.

Paul just shook his head sadly.

“I don’t know.”

John kept staring at him, his hand still on Paul’s arm. In that moment, Paul felt closer to him than he had since he’d arrived – more than in the last years with him, even. A whole silent conversation was taking place between them, just the way it used to when they’re were closer than brothers. 

Suddenly, the creaking steps of the stairs announced burst their bubble and announced the arrival of Cynthia. John let go of Paul as if he’d been burned and looked down. Cynthia stopped at the bottom of the stairs, talking softly, then came into the kitchen. She had a crying Julian in her arms. Paul felt hot shame burning at his ears when he realized he had completely forgotten the presence of the child.

“What happened to Julian? Why is he crying?” She asked both of them, a glint of accusation in her eyes. 

In their haste to look casual, the two men answered at the same time.

“Uh, he wanted to see you?”

“Does he really need a reason?”

Cynthia’s eyes ping-ponged between them, her grimace proving they sounded even weirder than if they’d stayed silent. This prompted Paul to get up. They couldn’t talk about it in front of Cynthia, and seeing the tired face of Julian, he had already overstayed his welcome.

“I should, uh… I should leave you to your packing. It’s getting late, and all,” He said, for some reason feeling a bit embarrassed.

John turned to him in a gasp, eyes wide. Paul thought he almost looked disappointed.

“It’s not that late,” John said quickly.

“It is, a bit,” Cynthia chided in, blushing. “I’m going to put Jules to bed. See you soon Paul, yeah?”

She approached to kiss him on the cheek. She was clearly trying to get him to leave and Paul was not one to intrude.

“Yeah, sure. Bye Julian, nighty night!” Paul cooed to the child who had stopped crying and was sniffing quietly. 

He had always had a soft spot for Julian, from the very beginning. Cynthia smiled and went to the staircase. Paul watched her leave and when he turned to John, he found him already staring at him.

“Thank you,” Paul whispered, finding it suddenly unbearable to look into John’s light brown eyes. 

“What for?”

John’s voice was so soft Paul wasn’t even sure he’d heard it right. 

“For not laughing at me,” He finally answered with a shrug and a quivering voice.

John frowned. 

“Why would I?”

“For so many reasons that I’m not even going to answer that,” Paul chuckled, relieved beyond words.

They looked at each other again. John looked a bit bewildered, his gaze carrying a thousand questions Paul wasn’t quite sure he was ready to answer to yet. He knew John was still trying to wrap his head around his confession, but he was not rejecting it. He was _giving him a chance_. And that was more than he could have ever hoped for.  
Another cry from Julian upstairs brought them both out of their bubble. Paul buttoned up his coat and went for the front door.

“I’m gonna leave, now. We can… we can talk about this more when you get back? If, you know, if you want?” He told John.

John just followed him and nodded numbly. Paul was already opening the door when an arm came once again to stop his. He barely had time to turn that he found himself with a warm and slightly shaky John in his arms, hugging him with so much force he stumbled back against the door. An image immediately popped in his mind of a different John, hugging him a bit embarrassedly what seemed like a lifetime ago. _It’s good to touch_, that John had told him that day. Paul hugged present John back with just as much force. It was true.

“It _is_ good to touch,” He whispered in John’s neck, his senses almost overwhelmed by the faint scent of ash, citrus and something else that he couldn’t quite name on his friend’s sweater.

John laughed and finally let him go with a clap on his back.

“Soft lad,” He said, a glint in his eyes Paul had not realized he had missed that much until that moment.

_This is him. This is my John_, Paul fleetingly thought when he looked back at him. He chuckled and opened the door again. 

“Don’t go back in my absence,” John suddenly piped up, his cheery voice not quite covering the hint of worry. 

There were many ways to understand what he meant. Don’t go back to your past. Don’t go back to France. Don’t leave me. All of them were equally heart-breaking, showing just how close they had actually been to losing each other.  
Paul sent him a last small smile before closing the door. 

“Don’t worry, Johnny. I’m not going anywhere.”

Time after that conversation seemed to fly. Paul did not realize how much of a burden was lifted off of his shoulder until he saw George again for the rehearsal of his wedding and George told him he was glad Paul finally looked human again. Things were far from perfect, still – and Paul doubted they ever could be, knowing how close he was to breaking down each time he lingered a little too much on the past – but the knowledge that John had not turned on him was like a safety belt keeping him from falling over. A small beacon amongst the darkness of his mind. He couldn't wait to see John again, to be able to talk about it. To share it with him, really this time. Or even just to talk about anything and not have to be worried to say something wrong or stupid all the time. It was fragile, but it was the beginning of a promise that he was not doomed to be lonely forever. Even if it was still hard not to feel out of place in his day to day life.

He was restless: all this youth pumping through his veins did not match with the current void of his schedule. Music was a good past time, but even that was not as fulfilling as he’d hoped. Something kept him on his guard, especially when he was trying to compose new tunes as he’d promised himself he would do. Not that inspiration was lacking – he had never had that problem, actually – but there was a barrier he could not exactly pass. Melodies swam through his heads, old ones and _old_ ones, and he did not know what to do with that knowledge lost to everyone but him. Playing the songs from 1966 onwards felt wrong, somehow. And yet, he felt unable to create any new songs as long as these ones did not exist in that timeline. They were not only part of him; there were part of the history of music as he had known it, and as it had formed the songwriter he was today. It was a mess, really, and he did not know how to get over it. 

When George’s wedding finally arrived, he could not be more grateful. The ceremony was short but lovely, just the way he remembered it. In a way, it was even funny to live it again and to notice things his inebriated state had kept him from noticing the time before. He was even happy to see George’s parents and siblings, even if he had to refrain asking any question that might create another imbroglio. Which meant basically any personal question. 

He was fixing himself a cup of tea and thinking about how close he had been to ask George’s sister Louise how her still unborn child was when Brian entered the newly-weds’ kitchen. Paul had carefully avoided him for the whole ceremony, fearing the scolding he would probably get for his French getaway and for having missed the Shea recording. But Brian only offered him a small smile, seeming a little uncomfortable himself. He did not like confrontations – Paul had almost forgotten that.

“It’s good to see you, Paul”, Brian started neutrally. 

Paul just nodded in his cup with a tight smile. He did not quite know how to behave with the man. It had been too long to feel as natural as it could do with the other lads.

“I heard you had been abroad. We couldn’t reach you, I thought something had happened to you.”

The sentence sounded as heavy as Paul felt. One of Pattie’s brothers entered to get a new glass, ignoring them but allowing Paul some time to better phrase his answer.

“Yeah… I needed the space. I’m sorry about the recording, I had no idea. I can record it again whenever you want, if you need it,” He said once the kid was gone, trying not to fall back into his over-apologizing self.

“No, we got that covered, it’s fine,” Brian assured with a small wave. “Even if I would really appreciate a head’s up in the future. You know, for the press and all that. Stories go quick.”

Paul nodded again, feeling like a right dick. 

“You know, we’ll start recording again in April,” Brian went on. “You… You’ll be there, right?”

Paul looked up and studied Brian’s face: his schooled features, the light tremor of his lip, the worried line between his eyes. It dawned on him that his disappearance had meant more to his manager than he had been conscious of. Paul disappearing literally endangered all of their careers, Brian’s included. 

He did not quite know how he felt about going back to being a Beatle again. No matter how much time he had had to think about it until now, it was a subject too painful and too meaningful to really let himself dive into it regularly. There was there an amount of anxiety and old feelings he did not feel ready to face yet. Last time he had, he had ended up spending the night drinking on his couch. Not the most healthy way to cope, and yet, he did not know any better way to deal with it for now. He really needed to be honest with himself and think clearly about it.

In front of him, Brian was still waiting for an answer, his worried wrinkle deepening. 

“I… Yeah. Yeah I’ll be there. Of course,” Paul finally let out, hoping his voice did not betray his uncertainty. 

“Paul? PAULIE?” George’s loud (and probably already voice suddenly called from the other room.

Paul gave a small smile of excuse to Brian before yelling back.

“Yeah?!” 

“Come here you git, the cake’s coming!”

Paul laughed, soon joined by Brian. 

“Sounds like duty’s calling,” the older man joked before leaving the room.

In the cup, his tea looked as sombre as his heart. 

“Yeah. Duty’s calling,” He repeated lowly to himself.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you again. I cannot believe the comments from the last two chapters, you just blew my mind. I'm getting into a part of a story that I know will be a bit harder to write. It's possible the chapters become more spaced out, but I'll try not to make the wait too long, don't worry.  
:)

When Paul learnt randomly at the wedding that he indeed already had a car and that it was quietly waiting for him in a garage in London, he still had not figured out where to park the one he had just bought. So, having a garage was convenient. Having two cars a little less, so the very next day he had gone to the garage and just sold the old car with an ease that surprised himself. He used to be ridiculously slow at making big decisions; now ‘big’ material things simply did not matter anymore. Or even any material thing.

He had never really been one to cling to objects and trinkets, but now, he simply did not care about them _at all_. After all, what was a Grammy Award when you had already lost what was dearest to you? He had collected those items so long ago most of them barely bore any meaning to him anymore anyway. Which is why he now found himself with an apartment void of any decorations, despite finding decorations being written on his list. Looking at his bare apartment, he could see how easy it would be to find it cold and impersonal. And yet, it was the closest he’d felt to being at home since he’d arrived in this timeline. A balance between past and present. The only true proof of his living in the place was all the pictures he’d scattered everywhere, from the fridge to the bathroom. He had hung them all. It was sometimes a painful reminder of what he’d lost, but the most recent ones of the band also reminded him of what could be won again. Since he was everyday fighting the desires to let himself sleep to death or to scream until his voice gave out, the photographs weirdly soothed his soul and reminded him that not everything was pointless. 

Since he was basically waiting for the days to pass until he had some obligation to attend to, he had taken it upon himself to repaint the place. The landlord, too happy to have a Beatle under his roof, had eagerly agreed to let him do whatever works he desired – Paul insisting on paying any changes. It was a good deal, really. It gave him a temporary purpose for his time and most of the days pre-wedding had seen him disguised in a hardware store or in his living-room with a brush in his hands. 

However, no matter what he did, loneliness was creeping up in his fingers and his veins when he wasn’t paying attention, ready to strike him down in any moment of weakness. Nights were the worst; with nothing to hide himself behind, he was just left raw and exposed for the nightmares to assault him. For the most part, they were not complicated to dissect. He was running around in the fog, trying to stop his family from disappearing under his fingertips until he found himself stuck on a stage, with a mic, with hundreds of people expecting some mysterious answer from him and pressing him from everywhere. They were exhausting, and most often than not, he would wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in cold sweat and breathing harshly. But like with pretty much everything, he got used to it: pee break, glass of water, shower, and back to bed to scrape a few more minutes of sleep. When he managed to.

He did not know how long he would hold like that. Not like he had a choice anyway, but he desperately needed distractions. Painting kept him busy. Busy kept him sane. He had even shaven his beard a few days prior, trying to symbolically cast his sadness away. Well, George had also sort of threatened not to let him come to the actual wedding when he had seen Paul still had it at the rehearsal dinner, but still. 

Thinking of diversions, George’s wedding had been a nice one. Being awoken from his tiny hungover by an irritated George Martin reprimanding him for having gone AWOL as well, in its own kind. At this point, anything was welcome. Anything that helped build him a daily life and not get lost in a whirlwind of feelings and confused memories. He had spent a lot of time catching up on 1966’s news and had even put up a calendar on his wall on which he marked important dates he needed to remember. His memory was already so overwhelmed, he felt like he needed to spare it as much as possible. One of the dates, marked with red, caught his eye every time he passed before it.

January 23rd. John’s return.

He felt stupid, but thinking about John made him impossibly giddy. Seeing the craziness of his situation, he was beyond lucky to have a friend back – and not just any friend; the best one he’d ever had. He was like a 7-year-old waiting for the boring family dinner to end so he could run back to his toys. He couldn’t wait for the dinner to be over. To find some familiarity back, even if it was still weird, unnatural and would probably never be truly satisfying. At least he could talk about his involvement in the band with him, which was a huge weight on his mind ever since he’d started ‘working’ with George. He had the inexplicable yet intimate conviction that John would be able to help him.

He just had to wait a little more.

His bell ringing startled him so much he almost drop his yellow-covered brush from the ladder he was on. He had been awoken by yet another nightmare around 4 and since he had not been able to go back to sleep, he’d figured he might as well start his day early. He was wearing old overalls, had paint on his chin and hair and was very much not expecting any visitor. The bell rang again. He looked at his watch, frowning. Especially not at 8:42 in the morning. 

He stepped down the ladder, wiped his hands on a dirty cloth and went to the door, spying through the peephole. When he saw who was on the other side, he was both perplexed and amazed and quickly opened the door.

“What are you doing here?” He exclaimed with a confused smile.

“We have to stop saying hi like that, it’s getting boring,” a tan, slightly red-nosed John answered with an eye roll. 

Paul stood aside to let him in. 

“I thought you were flying in today? And how did you know where I live?”

John bumped his shoulder playfully and walked into the apartment, curiously watching around him. 

“Nope, arrived yesterday. And I have my sources,” He said, wriggling his eyebrows. Then pointing at the practically bare room. “Are you trying to hide from the FBI? Will I find the hearts of dead girls in your closet?” 

Paul laughed.

“Would a murderer paint his ceiling in yellow?” He retorted, pointing at the ceiling.

“Nobody would suspect you.” 

John took off his coat and laid it on the couch, his gaze getting caught on the pictures hung all over the walls. He looked at each of them, not saying a word. Paul just watched him, shifting from one foot to the other. It was weird, seeing John in his new place. 

“It helps,” Paul suddenly said, feeling like he had to break the silence somehow. 

John turned to him with a slight frown.

“The pictures”, He continued. “They help me remember when things happened. Otherwise some memories get a little, you know. Confusing.”

His friend watched him intently before turning back to the photographs.

“Do you remember everything?” He asked, still looking at them.

Paul nodded, not realizing straight away he couldn’t see him. He cleared his throat, finding it suddenly hard to keep all the emotions he’d been smothering at bay.

“Yeah,” He said quietly. Then, not wanting to let feelings get the best of him yet, he added: “How was Trinidad?”

“Sunny. You know, sea, sex and sand.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s sea, sex and sun.”

“Alright, sea, sex, sand and sun, if you prefer,” John chuckled. “It was nice, though. We went fishing.”

Paul smiled, crossing his arms over his chest. He still did not quite know what to do with himself, how to behave ‘normally’. John tracked his movements and something shifted in his gaze. He went back to the couch and sat on the armrest

“Do you think you’re here to fix your mistakes?”

Paul was about to answer when something made him frown and shut his mouth.

“Why do you automatically assume I’ve made mistakes?” He asked instead.

“Because you haven’t?” John snorted.

Paul looked at his earnest face. Something twisted in his belly.

“I guess I have,” He replied quietly.

John gave him a sad smile, then got up again and went straight to the kitchen. He opened the fridge and the cupboards, checking their content. Sending a glance towards Paul, he nodded at the couch.

“Sit. It’s time for breakfast.”

“I have had mine already,” Paul protested, but still going to sit on the couch.

“Shut up. Second breakfast. Whatever.”

It was nice, being taken care of and not having to worry about every little thing you did. John was good company: his eggs were definitely overcooked and the bread too spongy, but his stories about Ringo almost losing his fishing rod to a fish and Cynthia and Maureen drinking by mistake very strong martinis made for a good distraction. If he was honest with himself, it was not even a distraction. He was just enjoying his time, drinking his burning hot tea and observing John’s big gestures and shining eyes. Sleep was burning his eyelids, but the warmth in his chest kept him awake. When John started describing Julian trying to steal his new straw hat in his sleep, a mouthful of eggs and another forkful already waiting to be gobbled, it dawned on Paul that he was talking about any subject that wasn’t related to Paul’s confession. Anxiety came tingling back in his fingers. 

“Do you really believe it? About me?” Paul suddenly asked, cutting John off. 

John stopped talking and chewed thoughtfully for a while, before turning earnest eyes on him.

“It’s… it’s not really about that. If I think about you traveling back in time – and believe me, I’ve been thinking about it _a lot_ – I… I’m trying to believe it, but there’s some rational part of my brain that won’t let me, you know? I just can’t, no matter how much I want to. It just won’t connect in my head.”

Paul nodded softly. He wasn’t surprised, really, even if it did hurt a little. He knew accepting it was a long process. That’s what the list was there for, after all.

“But I believe _you_,” John added, studying him carefully.

“What do you mean?” Paul frowned.

John chewed on his lip and leaned over his plate, his eyes fleeting all over Paul’s face. He was clearly struggling to find the right words.

“I know you. I know you’re not the Paul I was with last year, that is obvious, but you’re still Paul. And I know what you’re going through is not normal. All those memories you’re talking about – I can see them in you. I can’t fully comprehend where they’re coming from, but I know they’re real, just as much as you are,” He explained patiently, his voice becoming barely a whisper. “That’s what I believe.”

Paul thought his words over in his head, trying to process them. It was reassuring, but there was still this nagging anxiety pulsing in him.

“I don’t know what to do,” He confessed softly. “I feel like… you know, like I should be doing something. But I don’t know what.”

John poked the remaining eggs in his plate, lost in thoughts. 

“It’s been just one month, right?” He asked.

“A little more now. One and a half.”

“Give it time, then. You might remember things that will help you understand better,” John said. He stopped talking, visibly not sure if he should continue or not. Then, in an imperceptibly strained voice: “Or even go back, who knows.”

Paul hummed. Going back. It was an alien notion to him, something blazing and scary that was hidden behind a door in his mind. Ever since the last night in the Cardiff hotel, he had not opened it. Had even sealed it shut. He knew it was there, but he did not dare come too close for fear of losing himself. But John did have a point. 

Who knew.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a bit nervous about this chapter, but it's necessary to get to where I want the characters to be. Nothing bad, don't worry! Enjoy and thanks a lot, again.

“My phone, mostly. They’re tiny now, and they don’t have chords you know, so you can bring them anywhere. And with the internet you can find any information you want, it’s like an encyclopaedia on your phone,” Paul explained, straining to cover the whole corner of the ceiling without falling from the ladder. “Like a small computer. I mean, computers are already way smaller than before, so, you know, even smaller than that.”

Below him, John snorted. 

“Yeah, sure.”

“It’s true!” Paul huffed, looking down at his friend who was brushing random strikes of colour on the wall. 

He was pretty much making a mess of it, but Paul tried not to lose his patience over it. It was just the first coat. It was alright. John was already a mess himself anyway: he had light green paint on his hands – and consequently, on his thighs – he had pushed his sweaty hair backwards and rolled his sleeves as high as possible. He looked sort of ridiculous. And yet, he still somehow managed to look good, the wanker.

“I don’t believe you,” John stated simply, not even looking up. 

“Well, it’s your loss, then.”

“What else do you miss?”

Paul took his time to think about it, trying to scrape off the dried paint on his wrist.

“I miss my dishwasher.” He stopped, thinking. “And double glazing. Oh, and the GPS, God. So much.” 

“What is that?”

Paul took all his time to take off the extra paint on his brush. He had never thought he would have to explain what the GPS was to someone.

“It’s, uh… It’s the information that the satellites, um… that they send to one another to locate where you are, you know. Like, on the planet. It’s very useful. It helps you find your way when you’re lost.”

“Oh my. Sounds very fancy. And a bit scary, too. I should start calling you my Lord then, shouldn’t I?” John chuckled, crouching to dip his brush into the pot of paint.

Paul smirked.

“Well, actually…”

John stood up in a flash, his brush dripping on the plastic sheeting Paul had been more than right to put on the floor. He stared at Paul for a moment, studying his face. Then:

“Shut up.”

“Yes,” Paul laughed.

“You were knighted.” John asked in the blankest tone possible, straight-faced.

“Yes!”

“By the Queen?” 

“Yes, by the Queen, not by my butcher,” Paul giggled despite himself, turning on the ladder so that he could see the growing incredulity on John’s face.

John kept staring at him with a frown, having visibly some difficulty to wrap his head around the concept. There was paint around him – pretty much everywhere but on the wall.

“But what for?”

“Services to music,” Paul answered with the biggest smile.

“You. Services to music,” John deadpanned.

Paul threw some drops of paint on him but could not help the laughter bubbling out of him. John made a show of deeply sighing but Paul could see the corners of his lips fighting a smile.

“What a poor, cursed world.” He declaimed, shaking his head and staring dramatically out of the window. “Wait, was I knighted too?!”

A weight fell on Paul’s stomach. He schooled his features, hoping John wouldn’t notice his discomfort.

“Uh… Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

John whistled and shook his head again, turning back to the wall for Paul’s great relief.

“Christ, Mimi must have lost her mind over that,” The older man went on, unbothered. 

The weight only grew. Paul swallowed with difficulty. Maybe talking about the past/future was not the best idea after all. He glanced downward once again and saw John starting to paint circles, not caring at all about the lumps of paint he was forming everywhere. Just as he was observing him, John cast a look at him but quickly diverted his eyes when he noticed Paul staring at him. Paul hoped the faint blush on his cheeks was shame for his childish behaviour. His wall was going to look like a joke!

“Could you stop doing that? Just, please, stick to straight vertical lines,” He chastised him.

“Why?” John asked innocently, schooling his face and simply switching to waves. Freaking _waves_.

“Stop ruining my wall.”

“It looks better with more shapes and... things.”

Paul closed his eyes, breathing deeply. He had long forgotten how to deal with that side of his friend. He knew he was being a killjoy, but he couldn’t help wanting to do things right. And clearly, John could not care less about that. A chuckle erupted out of him.

“You’re such a little shit,” He said, looking at John again.

John just flashed him a bright smile before starting to draw suns and stars.

They were standing in front of the more or less finished wall. Depending on the sun lighting, John’s drawings could still be perceived under the second coat of paint, which annoyed Paul but also made the whole thing more organic, in a way. Paul looked at John next to him, who looked tired and dirty but very proud. Noticing he was the tiniest bit taller than him, Paul felt a smile involuntarily tugging at his lips. He had forgotten that.

“What?” John frowned.

“Nothing,” Paul smiled, turning his head. “I like my wall.”

“You’re welcome.”

After another moment of admiring the wall, John turned and searched for the clock on the kitchen wall. 

“I should head out. Promised my one and only I would be back for lunch.”

Paul crouched to close the lids of the paint pots. It was not even one in the afternoon, but his limbs were already so heavy he felt ready to go back to bed. Even if he knew he would probably not sleep anyway. Behind him, John was putting on his coat, not caring about the dried paint still on his arms. He even had a yellow flower on the cheek now, courtesy of Paul. He glanced at the kitchen where the plates from their breakfast were still on the table and turned to Paul.

“Do you want to come with? I’m sure Cyn wouldn’t mind.”

Paul hesitated. He kept having the reflex to wonder what old Paul would have done in his place. It was ridiculous, really, and useless, but he couldn’t help it. He still felt like acting too differently was bad, somehow.

“Come on, it’s just a meal. I’m not asking you to live with us, am I,” John added, sounding suddenly a bit miffed.

“Alright, yeah. Okay,” Paul offered with a small smile.

John clapped his hands together and went to the door.

“Fantastic. We’re taking your car.”

Paul looked once again at his freshly painted wall. He released a nervous breath and went to get his coat and keys. Just a meal. Everything would be alright.

Eating at the same table as John, Cynthia and baby Julian was even stranger than he would have thought. Beyond the different time periods thing, it was seeing the little family interact that left him a bit floored. They looked… normal. Happy. The fond looks between them. John incredulously smiling at Julian, as if he couldn’t quite believe he was his own flesh and blood. Paul knew that even back then they had problems, even major ones, but it didn’t look like their family dynamic would end in drama. He wished he could help them, somehow. Relieve the pain for Cynthia and Julian. For John, too. But what could he do, really? Nothing he would say would prevent pain from falling on them. Neither would listen to him anyway and he felt like he had no right to interfere. But still, it was painful to witness their fragile obliviousness. It almost made him feel like a traitor. 

“Paul?” Cynthia’s voice brought him out of his reverie. 

He turned to her. She looked a bit worried, her hands still busy cutting up the remaining vegetables in Julian’s plate.

“Are you all good? Do you want something else?”

“No I’m good, thanks,” He said, forcing a smile. “Sorry, I’m a little tired.”

“You’re not the one with the jet-lag, though,” John chided in, chewing his potatoes noisily. He threw a glance at Paul. “You have no excuse.”

“You know, we came back early from our trip because of you. He couldn’t wait to see you, wouldn’t shut up about it,” Cynthia told Paul with a chuckle, pointing at John with her chin.

“I’m not surprised,” Paul replied playfully, although the information went straight to his still stressed heart. “He can’t live without me.”

John opened his arms in a defensive gesture, eyes wide and swallowing with difficulty.

“Uh, hello? I’m right here, so I’d appreciate if you two stopped this… talking about me, thing,” He said, looking only at Cynthia.

Despite the slight sternness of his tone, Cynthia laughed and Paul joined her, willing his mind to stop torturing him. If she decided not to react to it, he didn’t want to be the one causing a scene. Maybe in this timeline they wouldn’t even divorce, after all – even if he strongly doubted it.

“Can you take one more bite?” Cynthia asked her son, who was crossing his arms and looking at her with an expression that startlingly reminded Paul of his father. 

“No. I’m not hungry,” Julian answered.

“He’s eaten almost everything already,” John intervened, looking at them from the corner of his eye. 

Cynthia sighed but did not answer to him. Instead, she leant a bit more towards the child.

“Just a bit more, please?”

“Cyn, leave him alone.”

Seeing how Julian decidedly kept his mouth shut, Cynthia put the fork down and turned to Paul.

“Are you going to write, this afternoon, then?” She asked him casually, visibly trying to divert everyone’s attention.

Paul was about to answer when John’s voice cut him off.

“Nah. If Paulie’s tired, no need to wear him even more down.” He stopped and threw an unreadable look to Paul. “Writing can wait, right?”

Paul looked at him for a second, a bit taken aback, then just went with it, figuring John surely had his reasons. Perhaps he just wasn’t in the mood, with the jetlag and everything. 

“Uh yeah, writing can wait, you know. We have time, anyway,” He confirmed to Cynthia.

True to his word, John did not suggest to write once they finished their lunch. Actually, he was talking about anything but music, which was a bit uncharacteristic of him – unless Paul’s memory was out of it for good. The more Paul observed him, the more he thought something was off about him. He sounded cheerful and relaxed, showing him the pictures they had taken on holiday, but every time he thought Paul was not looking, he seemed shyer, nervous. Avoiding every physical contact. Paul even caught him glancing at him and hurriedly turning his gaze away. He was definitely acting weird, and Paul could not quite pinpoint the reason why. A nagging voice in his mind kept telling him it was linked to his confession. As if he was afraid of Paul’s reactions, judging him and evaluating how much of his old friend he could find back in this current version of Paul. And really, Paul could not blame him for it. He was, as a matter of fact, doing the same. 

They had to look peculiar from an outsider’s perspective, Paul thought. Two practically lifelong friends sizing each other up, circling around each other and waiting for the one gesture, the one word that would come and shatter everything they knew about the other. Dancing in this unknown territory they both had to reconstruct. Perhaps Paul was reading too much into things, but the whole visit felt incredibly meaningful to him. Pivotal.

Driving home that same afternoon, he did not really know how he felt. He kept trying to find what had felt somewhat wrong about being at the Lennons, but maybe he was just on the wrong line of thinking. Nothing had been wrong. It was his reading of it that was biased. He was not the same man he had been in 1966, so it was only natural he wouldn’t be living things the same way. Knowing what he knew, he could not look at John and Cynthia and feel as ‘innocent’ as he used to – even if their problems had nothing to do with him. Ignoring his own feeling and knowledge made no sense. He was only bringing upon himself a new layer of responsibility, as if he had to play the role of 1966 Paul and hope that no one would call on his bluff. Even if John knew about him, his guilt still pushed him to act as if nothing had happened but it was stupid, really. He could not deny what he had lived. It was not right. 

As for John being so cautious around him, it was no surprise either. What did Paul expect, to have him accept everything without a blink? He had to feel at least a bit odd in Paul’s presence. Paul would feel the same in his situation. Hell, he himself already felt odd. But why would John refuse to play music? It could be for so many reasons that Paul’s mind could not settle on one long enough to be able to reassure himself. The only thing to do now was to give it time. Wait and see. They would end up having to write together at some point – a prospect Paul was dreading more and more. He had hoped talking about it with John would appease his anxiety, but that option seemed a little improbable at the moment seeing how vehement the man was at avoiding that subject. Perhaps he would have more luck next time.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I'm starting to hate my writing a little again, so I hope you won't hate it too. Anyway, longer chapter today!

The next time Paul saw George, they were at his house and things were not going smoothly. They were both in a sour mood. Paul had spent a terrible night of tossing and turning, amounting to not even four hours of sleep, and still felt restless about his writing situation. As for George, he was a bit sulky, quieter than usual and seemingly lost in his thoughts. Paul was trying his best to lift his spirits, but nothing seemed to really work. And he probably wasn’t that great of a distraction either. Maybe he was the very reason of George’s bad mood; he had no idea anymore.

They were taking a break, talking about Bob Dylan over their guitars, when George suddenly grew even quieter, not answering at all to Paul’s questions and looking like being here was the last thing he wanted. Paul fidgeted on his seat, looking at his friend’s face (he could not stop himself from staring at his youth). Memories from the last Beatles recording sessions came back to him and he could only feel the painful resemblance. All the ugly images kept popping in his head, making him feel more and more unwelcome.

“You know, if I’m annoying you, I can just leave,” He said, knowing full well that made him sound whiny but not able to bear this anymore. “I mean, it’s alright, you know. I’ve been here for a long time already.”

George looked up with something akin to hurt in his eyes, and quickly shook his head. 

“No, no, sorry. It’s not you, I’m just… I have a lot to think about,” He retorted, so sincere that Paul felt hot shame for having doubted him.

“Like what?” Paul asked in a small voice.

George chewed on his inner cheek, an unusual sign of nervousness, and put his guitar on the floor between them. When he straightened up, he still wouldn’t look at Paul.

“It’s Pattie. She’s pregnant.”

Paul just stared, his mind drawing a blank. What? _How?!_  
George sent him a weird look, not unlike the one he’d sent him when they had talked about his wedding.

“What do you mean ‘how’?”

And apparently now he could not see the difference between thinking and _actually speaking_.

“I… uh…no, I mean, I know how, but…”

“Did you know it?”

“What? No, no of course not. How could… I…?” Paul rushed to answer, frowning at the suggestion. 

Well, he guessed it wasn’t that far-fetched to assume from George’s point of view, but this was different. This was not _supposed_ to happen. The impossibility of the thing even shadowed the actual meaning of it. A thousand questions flooded into his mind. Maybe it had happened, and he had just forgotten it…? No, that made even less sense. Nobody would forget something like that. 

“I don’t know. John told me about the French papers spreading rumours about my wedding. Wouldn’t be surprised if they somehow knew about that too,” George explained with a shrug, going back to his melancholy behaviour. 

Warmth spread from Paul’s belly to his every limb. How many times could John Lennon actually save his life, he wondered.

“How far along?” He asked instead.

“Little less than two months. Could still go to shit, but she’s good for now.”

A silence stretched between them. George was looking at his guitar, his features so uncharacteristically open Paul was sure he could copy his every feeling in a book. The sadness melting from him slowly reached Paul. Once upon a time, he would have avoided diving into the subject – Liverpudlian boys are not supposed to dwell into things like feelings – but he was too tired to pretend not to care.

“You don’t look very happy,” He noted softly.

George shook his head again, sending a sad smile to the ceiling.

“I don’t know what to feel. I didn’t expect it, you know. Pattie neither. I mean, a kid.”

“Yeah,” Paul nodded, the faces of his own kids coming up unannounced, trying to burn themselves onto his retina. 

He refrained from asking anachronist questions such as ‘are you going to keep it?’ and instead tried to focus on his friend’s situation. Why that news could make him look so sad. 

“Too early?” He asked simply.

“Yeah,” George nodded, a relieved glint in his eyes – probably from not having to say it himself. Perhaps Paul was not doing _everything_ wrong. “It’s not that I don’t want kids. I’ll kill for them once they’re born. It’s just…I know it’s bad to think like that, makes me selfish and everything but… I don’t know.”

“It’s not selfish to be caught off guard. Or to want a life for yourself first. You’re only… 22,” He started, hoping his friend would not notice his slight hesitation. “You know, kids… it’s a lot.”

“Brian is going to kill me,” George laughed without real humour.

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about him, you know. Been there done that,” Paul tried to reassure him with a smile.

“Makes you the last of us for real, doesn’t it. Wedding, child. You’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

The light humour in George’s voice did not quite match the dark laugh that erupted out of Paul.

“I guess I do.”

“Not with Jane, then?” George went up, his gaze piercing through him.

Paul chuckled. God, if he knew!

“Nope.”

George smiled, visibly amused, and picked his guitar up, starting to let his fingers glide on it. Paul took it as his cue for dropping the subject and turned his own guitar back up again.

“I don’t want my kid to grow without a father,” George suddenly said, so low Paul almost missed it.

The meaning behind his words was so complex Paul was sure he would have completely missed it had he been his 23-year-old self. But he wasn’t 23 anymore. He knew better. 

Julian. Zak. The endless touring. The exhaustion of it all. George’s weariness towards the end. The disputes and the misunderstandings. It dawned on him, then, watching George’s insecurities and doubts pour out from his fingers to his music. Maybe this was one of the mistakes he actually could fix.

“They won’t,” He answered with force. He waited for George to meet his gaze again, then repeated: “They won’t. You’ll be there for them. We’ll make sure of that.”

Paul truly believed it, and the soft smile George sent him made him think he could believe it too.

They had finished a song. They had actually written a song together; even if it was mainly George’s, Paul had significantly helped, had even come up with a line or two. And it didn’t ring any bell in Paul’s memory. It was exhilarating, knowing he could still create things. That they could create things together and that the world hadn’t exploded. God had not fallen upon him to punish him for changing the course of events. It just worked. 

Feeling both satisfied, they decided to celebrate it by going outside and try to take their minds off their worries. Of course, it was easier said than done. They could not just _go out_ and wander to some place, they had to plan it beforehand, find someplace where they would not be assailed by groupies and fans. Luckily for them, they greying sky only promised heavy rain and thus might scare off any curious bystanders. But they knew better than to face the outside world unprepared. After sending out ideas back and forth, they decided to go to The Scotch of St. James with Pattie and see if there was any interesting people playing. Paul was happy to rediscover how easy it used to be to go to concerts on the very day they were happening (which was highly unlikely to be possible in 2019).

It was nice, Paul thought, to be able to enjoy the presence of his friend. To laugh with him and to allow the banter. It had been easy to forget how simple things used to be, but it was even easier to fall right back into it. They were having a lovely time, the three of them, despite the occasional fan coming up and invading their little bubble for an autograph or a kiss on the cheek. The band that was playing was not bad, even if a little common maybe, and the music echoed loudly in his chest, making him feel more alive somehow. And however bad George’s mood had been when Paul had arrived that day, it was good to see him now look lighter, almost happier. As if all it took for him to feel better was to talk with someone he trusted. Everything was going fine, really.

Then why did Paul feel so desperately lonely?

He was lost in his thoughts, comfortably settled in the plush couch of the club, a drink in hand and trying to discreetly dry the liquid he had dropped on his sleeveless vest, when George came back from wherever he had gone and plumped down next to him. And Paul might have been already a bit tipsy, but he was sober enough to know the mischievous glint in his friend’s eyes only meant trouble.

“Why are you staying here in your corner? Don’t you want to dance a little?” George asked loudly to cover the music.

Paul eyed him suspiciously.

“Dance? Me?”

George only smiled, his vampire teeth shining in the dim lights, and looked up at Pattie who was coming and sitting down on the other side of Paul. She was drinking a lemonade and looked perfect as a doll. 

“Her break is in five minutes,” She told George before sending a smile Paul’s way. 

“Wait, who are you talking about?” Paul growled, slowly understanding his bad feeling was correct. 

“I saw you watching that little brunette at the entrance. But since you don’t seem to be doing anything, someone should, right?” George explained with a cheeky smile.

Paul did not connect the dots immediately, then remembered the young woman with the dimples who had taken their coats. She was very pretty, sure, and a quick shag would probably take his mind off things for a while (it sure had in his past) but Paul could not feel less willing to flirt with anyone. The thought had not even crossed his mind. And his wife’s face was still burning in his mind, even if he was trying not to feed the fire anymore and had accepted to let it die slowly. There was no point in torturing himself further, really, and at this point he was rather trying to cherish the memories of his time with her and see it as something from the past (ironically).

He was not even feeling guilty about her specifically, not really – he knew he couldn’t see any new relationship as cheating because otherwise he would likely feel awful for the rest of his life – but still, he could not picture himself with just some random person from the 60s. It was too soon, too weird. 

As if he was reading his mind, George elbowed him.

“Come on! Just a dance. She won’t eat you, you know. Unless you ask nicely.”

“George!” Pattie laughed reproachfully, to which George only eye rolled.

“I don’t need your help to get girls, thank you very much. And I’m not in the mood, really,” Paul stated in what he hoped was an assertive enough tone.

The sigh that came out of George was so loud and dramatic Paul couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Don’t ever say I never do anything for you,” He finally said once all air was out of his lungs. Then, giving his hand out to his wife. “Love, shall we leave that buzzkill drown alone in his vodka?”

Pattie giggled and took his hand. Both of them stood up. 

“I hope you can still enjoy the night, Paul. You deserve it,” Pattie told him gently before following George into the crowd.

_You deserve it. You_ deserve _it_.  
Weird concept, that.

With George gone on his honeymoon and John still avoiding talking about writing, Paul found himself forced to (literally) face the music alone. Most February days thus found him in his spare room, surrounded by instruments and playing pretty much any song he could think of, whether it be his own or other people’s from the future. It was sad, not being able to listen to them when he wanted, so he just indulged himself in his own little world of lost music. He knew it wasn’t lost per say – and nothing said these songs wouldn’t exist in the future, but that was the thing. Nothing assured him they would. Especially now that he had proof things were not happening exactly the way they had in his past. Sure there would be plenty of other songs and that was great, but still. He knew some songs were more impactful than others in the history of music.

Starting with their own Beatles songs. 

What if Paul started working with John again, on new songs, and just came up with rubbish? After all, Paul was not the same man and his creativity had changed a lot too. They used to be always on the same wavelength musically, and now they weren’t anymore. Nothing proved he could just fit his creative mind right back into the right mind-set. Perhaps the best solution was to just let the others write on their own, try to influence them as little as possible. It would not be very satisfying for him, but surely he could make up for it on his own free time, couldn’t he? Better to be a bit bored and create the same great albums they were known for than let himself run freely and come up with shite music that would undoubtedly bring the end of the band. And who was he to stop the others from following the creative path they were currently on anyway? It was not like he could just tell them ‘no’ whenever they would bring up ideas of songs they’d already done in his past. Well, future. It wouldn’t be fair to them. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed like the best idea. He just needed to stand down a little on the writing part of the band. George was not a problem in itself, seeing as he was more than fine working on his own already. But John… 

_No, stop stressing_, Paul chastised himself when he felt cold sweat starting to pool between his shoulder blades as he was sitting on his piano, playing some David Bowie medley to relax himself. He would explain his decision to John, and it would be fine. Tell him that he needed to step back a little to make sure not to imperil the band. That their future albums were good, like _really good_, and that Paul did not want to endanger that. And if that made them both itchy with frustration, so be it. It wasn’t like John was dying to write with him these days, anyway.

Reassured to have come to some sort of decision, Paul got up, closed the lid of the piano and went to the kitchen to prepare himself a well-deserved dinner. His stomach was actually growling and the burning on his eyelids seemed stronger than ever. How long had he slept this time? Five hours, maybe? Perhaps he should go to a doctor about it. It couldn’t be healthy to get that little sleep and the nightmares didn’t seem to be going anywhere soon. Surely there was some sleeping pill that could help him – and now that he had his young, strong body again, he was not scared of much. Technically, this body had not even tried LSD yet. How funny was that.

He was waiting for the water to boil, head resting on his crossed arms at the table, when the phone rang. He thought for a moment to just let it go to voicemail seeing how heavy and lazy his body felt, but then remembered he was supposed to be a professional. Available and everything. 

With a sigh, he dragged himself to the living-room and finally picked up the phone.

“Yes?”

“Hello, Paul,” Brian’s gentle voice answered. “I hope I’m not bothering you?”

Paul looked at the sad pack of pasta he could see waiting in his dimly-lit kitchen.

“Hum, no. No, not really.”

“Good. Would you be available on the morning of the 19th to come to the office? It won’t be long, just finalizing some details for the tour. I need your final approval for the press conference.”

“Yeah, yeah, I am, sure,” Paul asserted, not bothering to check on his calendar. A bubbling sound suddenly came to his ears. “Oh, sorry, just, wait a sec.”

He put the phone down on the couch, groaning once again against its damn chord and ran back to the kitchen where the water was indeed boiling and ready to flow over. He reduced the heat, dropped the pasta in the water and went back to the phone.

“Sorry, just. The pasta,” He said uselessly, ashamed to notice he was slightly out of breath from his seven feet run.

“It’s alright,” Brian chuckled. “Have you started writing with John? I asked him earlier but he didn’t really, hum, answer.”

Paul sighed, closing his tired eyes in a futile attempt to release the tension. As if needed a new reminder of it.

“We’re working on it,” He settled on, figuring it was vague enough to reassure his manager and not to be a blatant lie.

“Good, good. Well I won’t bother you further then. You can come around 10am, no need to be super early. Really shouldn’t be long.”

Paul nodded to himself.

“Okay, got it.” Then, suddenly remembering who exactly he was talking to: “Thank you, Brian. For… caring, and all that.”

After a couple seconds of silence, a light embarrassed chuckle came through the phone.

“Well, you’re welcome, really. It’s my job, you know.”

A new silence settled between them, not exactly comfortable.

“Good night, then. Bye,” Brian quipped.

“Good night,” Paul answered. “See you.”

Paul stayed a long time standing with the phone in his hand, the soft bubbling of the pasta the only sound in the apartment.


	16. Chapter 16

Days passed. The difference from one day to the next was sometimes so tenuous Paul had trouble telling them apart. He had gone out, a few times – even seen some friends from the past, including calls from Ringo. Gone to movies he had never seen, even if he had stopped doing that quite quickly when he noticed how hard it was to do it inconspicuously. He had seen his brother too, which was in fact the easiest relationship to fall back into seeing as the love between them had not changed that much over the years. He had called his father. Seen a couple of aunts. All in all, he was rather proud of his socializing. It felt forced, most of the time, but it was nice to see people. To talk and be talked to; the latter more often than the former. He had not seen John though, despite a weird late phone call where his visibly very drunk friend kept mistaking him for other people.

However, all his efforts in socializing proved useless when faced to the reality that he was walking to a freaking Beatles meeting. His internal pep talks had prepared him for it – or maybe made him dread it even more – and yet, it was probably one of the most nerve-wracking ‘past thing’ he had to live this far. So many things could go wrong.

He was almost at the Abbey Road Studios, a good half an hour early and letting his feet mechanically lead him there, when he realized he was not going to the right place. Brian had no reason to make them come to the studios. Jesus, what was he doing? Where was he supposed to go exactly?  
The office, Brian had said. The office. He knew he knew where it was, the information had to be somewhere in his brain, obviously, but right now he was drawing a blank. He stopped in the middle of the pavement, feeling suddenly very lost. He needed to get going now, otherwise he would be late – and he absolutely _hated_ being late. Technically he could phone someone to know where it was, but that would just be admitting defeat and would make him look stupid and shameful. Moreover, those who could help him were probably on their way too and thus unreachable. Damn, he missed cell phones. 

Maybe the office was at Brian’s old record store? He did not remember if they were still using it or not. He racked his brain for a while, more and more ashamed of himself and standing discreetly under a bookstore’s porch way in the hopes no one would come bothering him. Of course, he had no such luck when a young girl and her father came out of the store and nearly bumped into him and instantly recognized him. Thankfully, despite the girl’s clear enthusiasm at meeting him, her father hushed her along so he got away with it with just a quick autograph and a hug. Annoyed with himself, Paul started walking again towards his own home, figuring he would need his car to get to wherever he needed to be anyway.

After another 45 minutes of driving around and losing his temper over his own memory, other drivers and red lights, Paul finally ended up at the NEMS offices, hoping it really was the right place. He got in, addressed a polite hello to the few people he passed in the hallways (most of them he did not recognize) and tried to let his instincts take over to find the right path, half-jogging the whole way. He was late, quite so, but did not really want to barge in into any room and make any more a fool of himself. Finally, he arrived near a dark door that awoke something in his mind. That was it. That was Brian’s office. He approached and stopped for a second in front of it, bracing himself.

When he lightly opened the door, it was like stepping into an old picture: the wallpaper, the chairs, the discs on the wall, the dark wooden desk. And scattered around the room, Brian nodding with his arms crossed standing next to the chairs of Ringo and John, the three of them caught in a lively conversation, and George leaning his arms on the desk and reading a document. All wearing short hair, clean-shaven faces and nice sweats and vests. As if no time had passed at all. They were all smoking, hence the literal fog hanging in the air, probably the starkest difference with his 21st century days. 

Paul stood for a few seconds behind the half-open door, stuck to the ground and feeling like a proper intruder. But Ringo suddenly looked up at the creaking of the door and sent him a warm smile.

“Hey, there he is,” He welcomed him.

Everyone else stopped what they were doing and looked up at that and Paul felt literally like a deer caught in headlights. John pulled a funny face and George simply raised an eyebrow.

“Hi,” He said weakly.

“Where were you? It’s almost 11,” Brian started with a frown. 

“I had problems with my car,” He lied easily, cringing at himself.

Brian huffed and went behind his desk as George was coming back to his seat, choosing to jump right into business.

“Well, let’s get into it quickly now that Paul is finally here.”

Paul winced but fully walked in to take the last available seat next to George. With the four of them aligned in front of the desk, they looked like schoolboys about to be reprimanded for pranking their teacher.

“So, you have the schedule of the tour – here, Paul – there are a few changes, we’ll leave on the 23rd after all, earlier than planned but we come back on the same date. I need you…” He stopped to take out other documents from one of his folders. “To sign these. The album needs to be finished on the 22nd at the latest. And before you say anything, I talked to George and yes, we can go up to 14 tracks. But it depends on you, you know.”

Paul took the schedule and felt his head spin looking at all the dates, practically each in a different country. He loved touring. But there was touring and there was _touring_. 

“Manila. That’s a first,” George murmured to him with his perpetually quirked eyebrow.

Paul started at the memory. If he could somehow resolve that situation… He swallowed uneasily, not sure where of his footing.

“Yeah, um, Manila…” He said in a loud voice, looking at Brian. “Is that… Don’t they have a bit of an, um, oppressive president?”

“Well, we’re not going for its president, you know,” Brian answered with a tight smile and a light chuckle. “It’s just one date, it will be fine.”

“Yeah I know, just… Might not be really… smooth? Like, the president might want to, you know, be involved,” Paul tried, significantly quieter along his sentence.

But whether Brian had clearly heard his concern or not, he just gave him another reassuring smile, told him he would take care of everything and went on about other details they needed to know. A glance to his left showed him that George was still looking at the schedule, indifferent, Ringo was ping-ponging between Brian and him with a vague interest on his face and John was staring at him with a frown. Understanding he could not do much more without sounding suspicious, Paul decided to bite his tongue and let it go for now.

True to his words, it was only fifteen more minutes until Brian let them go their own way, reminding them they were planned to start recording on April the 6th. The boys thus found themselves free for the rest of the day, and Paul had not even realized they had been talking that it was already agreed they would eat together in the quiet place next to the offices, of which they knew the manager and where they could get through the back entrance. 

“Say, if the woman of your dreams came to you and told you she doesn’t care about her husband and wants to get off with you just once, you’d say no?” Ringo asked, chuckling his whole way through the sentence.

“Yes!” Paul answered vehemently.

“That’s bullshit,” John commented, a cigarette hanging from his grinning lips while he was cutting the last bits of chicken on his plate.

Paul turned to him, feeling offended for being ganged up against. They were finishing their meals, hidden away in a secluded corner of the restaurant. 

“Well, sorry I’ve got standards!”

At that, John’s eyes widened comically, George and Ringo looked at each other, and then Ringo literally burst in laughter, bits of fries flying from his fork to George’s head.

“Oh pardon me, Sir!” George retorted with an obviously faked miffed grimace, wiping the fries off his hair.

“I believe in marriage!” Paul tried to explain, though knowing already that it was a lost cause. “It’s a beautiful thing, I wouldn’t want to be the one ruining it, you know. There’s lot of unmarried people, no point going after the married ones…”

“Stop, mate, just stop,” John told him in a chuckle, a hand on his eyes as if seeing Paul talking was physically painful.

“You’re really not helping yourself,” George snorted while Ringo was still lost to the world.

Paul eye rolled but couldn’t help the grin fighting to break out on his face, so he went back to his fish and chips (well, just chips) in an attempt to hide it. The others continued their meals too, letting their laughter die in a companionable silence. 

“Did Brian tell you we had ten nominations?” Ringo asked after a while, glancing at Paul then at the others. “I thought it was only eight.”

“What’re the last two?” John asked with a frown, still chewing loudly.

“Best contemporary... breathing,” George chided in.

“Best arrangement, I think,” Ringo said, oblivious. “And soundtrack I guess.”

Paul set down his fork and leant back on his chair as John leant forward next to him, pointing at George on the opposite seat with a mischievous smile. 

“Best silence in-between songs.”

“Best use of maracas.”

“Oooh we’ll definitely win that one,” John agreed brightly.

Paul laughed, crossing his arms over his aching belly. He was not used to eating so much anymore.

“Reckon we’ll win several, then?” Ringo went on, smiling too.

“I don’t see why not,” George drawled, stretching his arms above his head. “Err, I ate too much.”

Paul shook his head to himself, amused, but Ringo caught his gesture and gave him a sad frown.

“What, you don’t think we will?”

Paul gasped softly, his gaze meeting John’s inquisitive one. He looked too interested in his answer for it to be innocent. Seeing Ringo was still waiting an answer from him, he weighed carefully the words in his head.

“I mean, we can’t win every time, you know,” He said. “Two is already great. Just shouldn’t hype ourselves too much.”

“Yeah, good point,” Ringo nodded, convinced. 

They had never cared much for awards, anyway. As Ringo went back to the menu to pick a dessert, George bowed his head over it as well, suddenly very interested in eating again.

“So please tell, _Macca_. On a scale of zero to a 100%, how sure are you we won’t win several Grammies? I’d like to know,” John suddenly piped up, giving Paul a piercing but amused gaze. 

He was doing it on purpose, the cheeky tosser. Paul made a mental note to get back at him later for that. He smiled tightly at him.

“I don’t know, _John_, I can’t predict the future, can I?” 

John pursed his lips, mouthing ‘spoilsport’ at him. Paul just laughed but could not help the little ball of stress tightening in his stomach. They needed to be careful; he had had to clear his foreseeing words too many times before already, adding fuel to the fire was really the last thing he needed. He had to talk with John about it, make it clear.

They said their goodbye at the back entrance of the restaurant, figuring the four of them wandering around in the middle of the day in a busy neighbourhood was not the best idea. They all went their separate ways and Paul was leaving on his side when hurrying footsteps caught up with him, followed by heaving breathing right next to him. He turned and saw John trying to catch his breath.

“Fuck, you walk fast, you fucking giraffe,” He panted.

Paul chuckled. 

“You should really work out, you mean,” He retorted playfully.

John did not answer but the offended grimace he sent him was clear enough. They took on a rather busy avenue and needed to walk fast and look down for a short while. As they were turning into a quieter street, John fell in pace with Paul, who for once was simply enjoying the moment and was happy to notice he was not completely paralyzed by stress.

“Anyway, you want to go for a walk or something?” John said after a while, sounding happy. 

“We can go to mine otherwise, write a little,” Paul answered. 

Not like he was looking forward to it, but he knew it had to be done at some point. But glancing at John, he was surprised to see him clearly uncomfortable. 

“What?”

“Um, I’m not… Not really in the mood, maybe some other time, yeah? Fancy a walk right now,” John answered, clearly avoiding his eyes.

Paul stopped walking, which forced his friend to reluctantly stop too.

“Why don’t you want to write with me anymore?” He asked bluntly.

“Oh, because you do?” John snorted, all happiness gone from his voice.

Paul frowned. Had he not heard him?

“Well, obviously, yeah.”

John looked at him for a while, studying his face, then just shook his head and started walking again. 

“Whatever.”

Paul watched him go, confused.

“We have to write!” He called out. “April is approaching, come on, don’t be ridiculous!”

He saw John’s shoulders tense for a second but when his friend turned, he had schooled his features in a neutral mask. Paul cursed himself for being so bad at reading him when he did that.

“Okay, we’ll write. Next week-end at my place, okay?” He answered in a blank voice that sent a shiver down Paul’s spine. “I’m busy this week.”

“Look, if it's about me writing with George..." Paul started, feeling embarrassed.

"It has nothing to do with you and fucking George, okay? Not everything's about you, Jesus Christ," John angrily cut him off.

Paul frowned but simply nodded, not wanting to worsen John’s mood since he was being so touchy already. John nodded back at him and lifted his arm in a goodbye wave that looked somehow a bit aggressive. Or maybe it was just because Paul did not want to see him leave.

“Good. All good then, right? Everything’s fucking good. Now, bugger off, if you will.”

And with that he turned around and walked away quickly, leaving a confused and slightly disappointed Paul behind. He let out a deep, tired sigh. This hot and cold thing with John was exhausting. As if the man could not just _tell him_ why he was being so pissy about writing with him. He hated it. He hated to see them not being able to function together. 

And he hated feeling so fucking alone every time John left him out.


	17. Chapter 17

The rain was pouring. It was not a light London drizzle but real showers that soak you to the bones. It made it even harder for Paul to gather the courage the get out of the car. 

He had been sitting in his car for about twenty minutes now, trying to move his stiff limbs to actually get up and go to John’s door. He didn’t want to, and saying he was nervous was putting it lightly, but if he didn’t get out now he would just be downright late. The fact that he had taken so long to prepare himself did not help even. He was not usually one to fuss but he felt like he was going to some meeting where he needed to impress people, and had put extra effort to look both serious and casual. Anything to feel more confident, really. He just _knew_ John would be hard to deal with that day – and he also knew, even though it left him an unpleasant feeling, that it was probably linked to his writing with George. But since there was no way he would apologize for that, he just needed to ride the tide until John tired of being a child about it. Another nagging voice kept telling him there had to be another reason for John’s reluctance, but he could not quite put his finger on it. But whatever it was, he just needed to face it. Stop being a coward and go to the door. He was a big man, he could handle whatever was waiting for him.

Taking in a big breath, he uselessly pulled on the collar of his coat to protect his face, took his guitar case and opened the door of the car. The few steps to the alleyway were enough to have him completely drenched even though he was running. He rang at the door, now panting, sweaty and all wet. Great.

After a few moments, the door opened on a fluffy and warm-looking John, who just froze, his eyes sizing Paul up.

“Hi,” Paul tried with a little smile. “Lovely weather, don’t you think?”

John just looked at his drenched legs, lips slightly parted, until something seemed to snap in him and he took a step back. The way he avoided Paul’s eyes was not the greatest sign.

“Get in, the fire’s lit up.”

Paul followed him inside, wincing when he saw the water dropping out of him as if he was a dog.

“Don’t worry, ‘s alright,” John told him, as if he’d read his mind. “It’s just water.”

Paul took off his coat and followed him carefully to the living-room. Indeed, a fire was burning in the chimney and immediately warmed Paul’s whole body. A guitar was already waiting on the couch, as if John had been playing right before his arrival.

“Where are Julian and Cyn?”

“Gone for the day.”

John approached the couch and simply sat on it, putting on his square glasses and taking his guitar. Going straight to business was not unusual per say, but it still left Paul feeling uneasy. After a few moments of silence, John seemed to sense his indecision and looked up.

“You can sit, you know,” He told him, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

Paul obeyed, going straight for the seat closest to John. Clearly John was making efforts for things to go smoothly, and he could not be more grateful, especially seeing how nervous he felt already. Feeling his guitar in his hands again was the boost of confidence he certainly needed. The two took a while to quietly tune their instruments, and it just gave Paul the necessary time to adjust to the familiar situation again. Find the right mood, the right mind-set. Allow himself to reverse back to being one part of their duo. Curiously – or maybe not so much, precisely – habits flooded back to him naturally. As if he had always been made to be right here. Sitting in front of John with a guitar in his hands. 

“So, how many more songs do you need?” John suddenly asked, not looking at him.

Paul was taken aback for a second, wondering if he had missed some information somehow. 

“What do you mean?”

“For the album. How many left?”

“I… We don’t have…?”

“Please, don’t pretend the hundreds you wrote with George are rubbish, I don’t have time for this,” John sighed while adjusting the capo on his guitar.

Paul stopped playing and frowned. 

“What? We wrote just one song. Barely one. It’s not… I mean, you and I…”

John sent him a quick glance, too quick for Paul to read anything into it. But judging by the tense line of his jaw, the conversation was heading south way more quickly than Paul was ready for. 

“Oh, ‘cause there’s still a ‘you and I’ here? Glad to hear about it,” John asked, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“What are you talking about? Of course there is. We write songs together. That’s… you know, that’s our thing,” Paul retorted, hearing himself sound a bit more defensive than he would have liked.

“Right,” John snorted, still not looking at him.

“Do you… do you not want to write with me or…?”

At that, John froze. Moments passed, leaving Paul more and more uncomfortable. The already pretty tense atmosphere was turning ice cold so fast he felt like he was falling in a bottomless pit. And seeing the slow and calculated way John was breathing only reinforced the impression. 

“You have to be taking the piss right now,” John finally said, visibly trying very hard to stay calm.

Paul’s mouth opened on its own, words battling their way out of it.

“No. No! Why would I—”

“Why?” John immediately cut him off, finally looking up at him. The rage and hurt in his eyes, so violent they could burn down buildings, cut straight to Paul’s heart. “_Why_?! Are you fucking serious?! I come to cheer you up and you basically ask me to sod off, then you fuck off to France without telling me, and then when you come back – which I learned by fucking coincidence, by the way since you had already told everybody – then you just bat your droopy eyes and go, ‘oh yeah, by the way, I’d rather just write with George from now on, cheers mate’. And now, I’m trying to be the grown-up and let you come to just do the fucking work and you’re telling me, what, ‘oh I don’t understand why you don’t like me, boo-hoo’?! Are you…? Fuck. Honestly, just… just fuck you mate.”

Then he furiously got up, practically dropping his guitar on the floor, and stormed out without a look back. Paul was just left there, mouth agape and mind reeling. What _the hell_ had just happened?! He had not even been here five minutes and things had already escalated at lightning speed. He knew John could get angry quickly but that was just another level altogether. And what was he reproaching him here, exactly? 

Forcing himself to snap out of it, he finally got up too and followed the direction John had gone. He wandered for a while, trying hard not to lose his own patience, and finally found his friend on one of his balcony upstairs. It had stopped raining and the clouds were timidly starting to disperse.  
John was smoking like a fireman, his hand so shaky it was a miracle he could even hold a cigarette. From behind, his hair looked so soft, and his shaking jumper-covered back seemed so fragile that it made Paul pause a second. Angry John was gesticulative, but firm – not near this shaky. He was not just angry. He was upset. And Paul had never been really good at spotting it, even when it was staring at him in the face. What a fucking idiot.

As his own indignation was melting away from him, Paul finally came closer and got into the balcony as well. John did not turn around, but he could see his shoulders tense again. Paul went to stand next to him, leaning onto the railing in a similar fashion. 

“I’m sorry,” He admitted quietly. 

John just huffed. 

“What for?”

Paul thought about it carefully, knowing he could make things very much worse with just one wrong word. The worst thing he could do was pitying John. 

“For being an idiot. I should have called you when I came back from France. I know it’s no excuse, but I was, uh… scared, actually.”

That got his friend’s attention, who turned cautious but still very dark eyes to him.

“Scared of what?” He asked in a quiet voice.

“Of doing everything wrong? Which is what I ended up doing, anyway,” Paul answered with a self-deprecating chuckle. “I felt stupid for being a dick to you and I thought… I don’t know, that you would still be mad at me. I didn’t want to face it.”

“Well, to be fair, I was.”

“I know,” Paul sighed. “That’s why I was scared.”

“So now you’re saying you didn’t want to write with me because you were scared of me?” John huffed out, anger lacing his words again.

Paul shook his head, fighting the weird urge to just take John’s hands in his. He was overwhelmed with the need to make him _understand_.

“I want to write with you. Writing with you and just, you know… being with you, that’s probably one of the best things that ever happened to me. But… You know how you said that maybe I was back here to fix my mistakes? Well, if I want to write with George, that’s precisely because I don’t want to make the same mistakes again. I don’t want to take him for granted like I have in the past. But it doesn’t, you know, _replace_ writing with you, or anything. It’s not one or the other. I mean. Nothing could replace what we create together, you know? We’re Lennon-McCartney for fuck’s sake.”

John stayed quiet for a while, slowly studying his face as his anger seemed to lower back down. Then he dropped his head to look at his dying cigarette and Paul saw the tiniest smile was fighting to break out on his face. Feeling emboldened, Paul chuckled.

“What’s that smile about?”

John glanced at him and the tiny smile appeared for real, which brought warmth in Paul’s chest.

“Lennon-McCartney, huh? You finally accept it?” John teased him, taking a last drag of his cigarette.

“Well,” Paul smiled, looking out at the horizon, the shy sun poking him in the eye. “It does have a very, very slight better ring to it.”

He did not dare look at John again, but he could swear he was smiling too.

“I don’t understand. Why should we do only mine?” John asked again, confusion all over his face. “What’s the point?”

They were back in the living-room and had been working for a good two hours on an early rendition of one of John’s songs – which sounded vaguely familiar – when Paul admitted he didn’t feel comfortable having any of his songs on the next album and would rather work only on John’s. They were calm and peaceful now, and it was nice to see they could work in a pleasant and trusting environment again. But apparently, explaining why he _couldn’t_ write was much more difficult than he had anticipated. His throat was so dry it was getting painful.

“It’s just, you know… I’m not in the right mood, I think,” He started explaining. “I don’t want to slow you down by bringing up my old… tastes, in it. Literal granny music, you know. If we want the album to be as great as it can be, I shouldn’t just, interfere too much. I can still bring my old songs later, but they don’t really need work, you know.”

“They’re that good, are they?” John retorted in a funny voice, clearly making fun of him.

“Well, yeah,” Paul replied truthfully.

John just laughed but when he crossed Paul’s gaze again, something very soft and understanding spread in his eyes.

“You’re afraid it will be shit if it’s different, don’t you? I mean, if we don’t make the exact album you remember doing.”

“You have to admit it’s a pretty big risk,” Paul admitted.

John shook his head, thinking it over while strumming on his guitar.

“I don’t see it that way,” He finally uttered, his voice nearly as far away as his thoughts. “We’ve made great albums because we loved them. We sweated over them, we worked hard for them. We were really into it. If we just replicate the songs you have in mind, I don’t know. They still won’t be the same, you know? We won’t have worked the same for them.”

“So you’re saying they’re just lost forever,” Paul responded weakly. 

“No. I’m just saying it’s not just the words and the notes that make the songs. If they’re in us, they will come out on their own. We can’t force them to just, _be_. And I don’t think you need to worry about it that much. We make great songs. I don’t see why that would change just because you know more of them than I do.”

Paul took the time to fully comprehend his words and chuckled when he realized how easier the last few weeks would have been had he talked to John from the beginning.

“God, it sounds so simple when you say it. I’m so stupid.”

“Nah, you’re not stupid. I’m just a genius.”

At that Paul just burst in laughter, almost surprised to see his own mood change so rapidly. 

The two of them picked their song up and worked in harmony, their exchanges seamless just like they were in Paul’s memories. It was thrilling, to see he hadn’t made it up. That it wasn’t one of those things his mind had glossed along the years to make it more bearable. They really were _that_ good together. Paul was still a bit shy in his own propositions – and he was sure John had noticed it, if his insisting looks were anything to go by – but the situation and his friend made him comfortable enough to try and actively participate. 

Four hours had gone by and Paul was rather exhausted, but overall satisfied. He felt lighter from having talked with John, the relief like a safety blanket over his troubled mind. They were now drinking tea (and smoking pot for John) in the kitchen and things felt… normal. 

“Do you want to come to mine tomorrow then?” Paul asked, happy not to be too worried about the prospect. 

“Nah I can’t, sorry, I’ve got a journalist coming over here for an interview. The Evening Standard I think. She’s supposed to come over at 2, I’ll have to wake up and everything. Thanks Brian for ruining my day-off”, he finished with a grumble.

As he was stirring the spoon in his cup, a sudden realization came onto Paul, his stomach dropping to his feet and his fingers stilling. Was it…?

“What did you say her name was?” He asked bluntly.

John looked at him quizzically, still idly reading the nutrition facts of the box of tea bags. 

“Who?”

“The interviewer, what’s her name?!” Paul pressed.

“I didn’t say it.”

“Stop it, I’m serious.”

Another look at Paul’s face seemed to convince John not to joke further.

“I don’t know, Maureen Leaf-something,” he added with a shrug.

Paul leaned forward with wide eyes.

“Cleave? Maureen Cleave?”

“Huh, yeah, I guess. Why?”

Paul’s heart was apparently trying to beat out of his chest. This was all wrong; the interview hadn’t taken place this early in the year, had it? Or maybe it had? He could have sworn the whole Jesus scandal was during the summer… It couldn’t be a coincidence though, could it? And he was pretty sure they hadn’t met her beforehand. He still remembered the pain when he had learned John’s murderer quote that very interview. He couldn’t risk it.  
He leaned even more over the table, putting a hand on John’s arm.

“John, listen to me. During that interview, do not say anything about religion. Nothing, you hear me?”

John let out a disbelieving chuckle at Paul’s sudden seriousness.

“Why not? Think I’m too stupid to talk about religion?”

Somewhere in his mind, Paul noticed he sounded a little hurt but he just huffed angrily. He did not have time for this.

“I’m not joking, this is very important, okay? I can’t, really I _cannot_ stress this enough. Do not say _anything_ about religion. Even if you are asked about it. Even if she’s harassing you for a comment on your beliefs or Christianity or whatever. Do not say anything. Can you promise me that?”

John’s eyes went quietly over his face, seemingly trying to read him. 

“Why?” He asked, guarded. 

Paul wanted to cry. 

“Promise me.” 

Another tense silence settled between them.  
But after a while, John slowly nodded. 

“Okay. Okay, I promise.”

Paul felt an intense shudder of relief come through his whole body. He closed with eyes only to calm himself down. He needed to stop getting so worked up all the time. When he opened his eyes and expired slowly, he found John still staring at him, looking somewhat worried but not daring to ask anything.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Infinite love to all of you!

Paul had undoubtedly never been that nervous on his way to a newspaper stand. Well, he had been the day before when he had already checked the copy of The Evening Standard, but still. He was not only nervous, but downright scared. The salesman probably thought he was crazy, seeing him hastily going over all the titles with shaky hands. When he finally found the right newspaper, he took it, paid for it hurriedly and went around the stand to find a secluded corner of the pavement to sit on, looking like a right lunatic. His eyes swept over the pages, going so fast it would not be that surprising if he just missed what he was looking for but suddenly they stopped on one black and white picture. That was it, that was the article, but for some reason, he could not stop staring at the picture. It was from an awkward angle, and he definitely looked weird in it: half-opened eyes, too long hair, caught in the middle of sentence. But somehow, it was captivating.

Snapping himself out of this strange trance, he attentively read the article, his heart beating so loud he could feel it in his ears. But soon he forced himself to breathe slowly in and out. It was good. He read it again, more quickly – yeah, nothing incriminating. Neutral. He did not spot anything that had a huge polemic potential, unless he was missing something. Or unless… There was a comment about Vietnam that sounded pretty clear about John’s position on it. But that wasn’t too bad, was it? He was far from being the only one finding it outrageous. Surely no one would burn him at the stakes for that. At least no one could use that as an excuse to kill him.

A shiver shook his whole body. 

But no, it was fine. No Jesus scandal. John had listened to him. He was safe. Paul needed to repeat it to himself until he could truly believe it.

John was safe.

Feeling a bit overwhelmed, Paul closed his eyes and leant his head on the back of the newspaper stand. Horrible thoughts were threatening to invade his brain – such as ‘maybe you prevented one thing only to allow another worse thing to happen’ – but he tried his hardest to shut them out. This was good. He had the right to be happy about it.

Since he had arrived back in the past, he had had a lot of new ‘firsts’, some of them coming so long after their first iterations they legit felt like he was living them for the very first time – if that made any sense. First rented apartment (he had only owned houses before, after all), first time at a traditional barber, first two-channelled TV, first time living completely on his own. So many things were new to him he felt like a baby or a fledgling teenager and not at all like a nearly 80-year-old grandfather. Sometimes, he was even scared to realize he momentarily forgot he was old. Who he was. It was daunting, but he tried to rationalize it by concluding it was his brain’s self-defence mechanism. To allow him not to drown under the guilt, the pain and the loss, his brain let him forget he was an intruder. An outsider, a freak. But usually, his consciousness would soon after make him remember who he was and where he came from. It was painful, but somehow it also reassured him to notice that he would not just ‘forget’ everything.

So here he was, living experiences as a misfit, a sort of alien with too much knowledge for his own good. He was like an omniscient narrator, in a way. The privileged witness of his companions’ lives. Of the whole world’s evolution, even – at least as far as his memory went. Some experiences were invigorating and heart-warming, others were frightening. And the rest were mostly very strange. 

Celebrating his father’s death by calling him, for one, was a rare combination of the three of them. 

“So, are you coming up to Liverpool anytime soon? Your aunts have been asking about you. They say they’ve read you were going solo,” His father informed him casually.

Paul was sitting on the floor, phone tucked against his ear and shoulder, idly painting on a large sheet of grainy paper. 

“I’m not going solo,” He huffed. “Journalists made that up.”

“I figured, but you know them. They’re still upset to have learned about Jane from the papers.”

Paul sighed, clearing his little brush of any excess of paint.

“I’ll come and visit soon. I’m just a bit busy these days.”

He wasn’t, not by a mile. But going back to Liverpool made him feel a little too claustrophobic for now. But his father would not understand that. Even he could not really understand it.

“I saw your concert on the telly the other night. It was nice,” His father kept going, knowing better than to coerce his son into doing something he did not want to do. “Even if with all the screaming it’s a wonder anyone could hear anything at all, I reckon.”

“Thanks. I missed it, actually.”

“Well, you lived it, so, not like you would learn anything new about it, would it?”

Paul stopped for a second. His father had a point, but it was so long ago for him now, he would have liked to see it anyway. Having totally lost the habit to buy the TV program, he had only learned about the diffusion the next day when his lovely neighbour had told him her husband and she had loved the show. That had made him miss him replay and his old life even more. It was frustrating that now, even as he was given a second go at things, he would still miss some of them.  
But again, it wasn’t something his father could understand.

He was listening to the radio in his car, idly looking at the trees outside that were slowly gaining some of their green back and tapping his foot in rhythm with the music. A new song came on and Paul immediately recognized the ‘hit’ as the speaker had announced it; The Hollies, ‘I’m Alive’. It was a lively, supposedly happy song, and yet the lyrics cut to him in a strange way. What he would give to feel _that_ alive again…

Someone knocking on his window made him jump and turn around. John was smiling at him, bending to see the inside of the car. He was carrying a guitar case and a brown satchel, and was wearing one of his old newsboy caps. 

“Were you talking to yourself?” He could hear him ask behind the window. 

Paul rolled it down (with difficulty) and cranked up the sound to let John hear the song. His friend squatted next to the car, leaning his elbows on the door and listened carefully for a while. The sound was cracking a bit and a grimace formed on his face. 

“Herman's Hermits?” John asked after a while with a hopeful look.

Paul shook his head, grinning. 

“The Hollies. You disappoint me.”

“Shut up. Open the door.”

With a chuckle, Paul obeyed and soon enough, John was putting his guitar on the back seat and taking place next to him. Paul started the car and got on the main road. It was not a very long drive – even if making a detour to pick John up had sort of made him go to the other side of the city – but he let the radio on anyway, lowering it to only have a background music. John seemed to appreciate it: he had rolled his window down, elbow on it, and was observing outside. In a glance, Paul could see his hair floating softly around his face. He looked peaceful. Safe.

“How’s Julian?” He asked, suddenly feeling like he should be saying something. 

John sent him a quick peek.

“He’s a genius,” He proclaimed. “Last night he assembled that toy they show on the telly, the one with all the bloody squares on it? Just looking at the fucking thing gave me a headache and he made it in five seconds.”

A lopsided grin appeared on Paul’s face.

"Five seconds, that much?”

“Even less, actually,” John retorted, happy to play along. “He barely looked at it and it was made. That boy is going to build rocket ships, I swear.”

A comforting warmth spread throughout Paul. Even if he still had his eyes on the road, he could still hear the genuine smile in John’s voice, and that did something to him.

“My dad told me the other day that he’s found some of my toy soldiers in an old box of photographs. They were covered in multicolour paint. Guess Mike and I weren’t much of geniuses,” He joked.

“Don’t beat yourself up,” John answered with a light tap on Paul’s arm. “That was all Mike, I’m sure. Jealous of Saint James Paul’s army.”

“Probably, yeah.”

They arrived at a crossroad and stopped at the red light. Paul let his eyes wander around and briefly met an excited gaze through the window. He turned his eyes back to the road. He knew what that look meant.

“Don’t look to your left, some people recognized us,” He told John.

“Where?” John asked – sitting up to _look straight to his left_. “Arf, they’re ugly.”

Paul huffed, putting the car in first gear when the lights finally turned to green. 

“Could you behave? Please?”

“What, you think they're pretty?"

The genuine surprise in his friend’s voice made him huff even more.

“Well, I didn’t actually see them well enough to judge, but still, that’s not the point, is it? It’s pretty… rude. You know?”

“Wow, calm your tits, Pankhurst. I wasn’t telling them, I was telling you. Jesus,” John chuckled. “What did the future do to you?”

It was a pretty innocent remark, and Paul knew he did not mean it, but it still hit too close to home and left him unable to find a good comeback. John didn’t seem to notice anything, though, as a new glance told him he was still looking at him with a smile. A new song arose softly from the radio, some title Paul did not recognize. John hummed along for a sentence or two, turning once again to look outside. Another quick glance in his direction made Paul realize he had a strange pensive expression on his face.

“Are you alright?” 

John turned to him with raised eyebrows. Was he surprised or brought back to reality, Paul was not sure.

“Yeah,” He assured him. “I should be asking you, though.” When Paul frowned, he continued: “Yeah, since, you know, it’s your first real Beatles thing since Cardiff. It’s just pictures, but still. Must be weird for you.”

Paul nodded but had to force himself to stop frowning.

“I’m fine. I guess it is, a bit. You know, weird. But I’m alright. Really.”

“You know you’re allowed to be stressed, right?”

“I’m fine, John. Don’t worry.”

He could feel John’s studying gaze on his profile, but thankfully, he did not push it and simply turned to the window again, letting out a soft:

“Okay.”

He was not nervous. He just needed _not_ to think about what it meant too much.

When they entered the studio, they were immediately swamped by assistants and various executives running all over the place. It was a busy day in a thriving institution, with several photoshoots happening at once; having one of them with the Beatles only added to the usual madness. They followed one assistant who seemed particularly efficient into a dress room in which Ringo was already being taken care of, sitting in a hairdresser’s chair, his make up half done.

“Hey lads!” He welcomed them warmly. “Happy to see you, I was starting to feel a little lonely in here.”

“Hi Rings,” Paul smiled at him, patting his shoulder and looking at him through the mirror. “Is Brian here?”

“He went to talk to someone.”

“Who?” John asked, propping himself up on the dressing table.

“I don’t know,” Ringo shrugged. “Someone.”

Paul looked around the room, his eyes scanning for any specific detail that would be familiar. They landed on the clothes rack on which several white blouses were hanging. It was an odd choice, he thought for a while. But after a few moments, memories flooded back to him and with them, a vague nausea. The butcher photoshoot. He still remembered the smell of the raw meat, so strong it had permeated his clothes despite the blouse. It had been nauseating back then, so now, it would only be worse. What a pleasant day in perspective.

He walked back toward to chairs and leaned against the dressing table with a heavy sigh, next to John who was observing him while a poor make-up artist was trying to convince him to just sit in a chair. 

“What is it?” John asked Paul, ignoring the woman lightly tapping on his arm.

Paul glanced at the woman, and at Ringo just behind who was closing his eyes to avoid getting any hairspray in them.

“I’ll tell you later,” He whispered to him.

John only nodded and finally agreed to sit on the chair. When the artist taking care of Ringo up to then turned to Paul, he followed her without question. Seeing his reflection in the mirror made him feel weird again; at home, he had not even bought one so he barely ever saw himself. It didn’t feel like watching oneself at all, not really. He was slowly getting used to seeing the baby version of his friends, but his own baby face was still a bit too much. Maybe he would never get used to it.

The four of them (George had arrived almost half an hour late but no one really questioned it) were waiting on the shooting set, taking an incalculable amount of photos holding various random and ridiculous objects when two assistants brought the literal crates of raw meat, the smell drifting to Paul’s nose even before the others had noticed everything. And sure thing, another assistant was bringing the white blouses. Paul could not stop himself from groaning at the prospect. He leant towards John.

“That’s what I was sighing about,” He whispered to him.

John looked around as well, still playing with the severed head of a naked doll.

“The blouses?” He asked, a bit confused.

“The meat. They will just cover us with it. I mean, over the blouses.”

John let out a silent whistle.

“Mad scientists, I see. Well, you should pull it off quite well, you look elegant enough. I’ll just look like a clown in these,” John chuckled.

But the very, very slight tightness in his voice caught Paul’s attention. John usually loved dressing up and was never afraid to look silly or downright ridiculous. So why would he be bothered by that specific outfit?

“I think you could literally wear a cow’s skeleton and still be beautiful, so, you know,” Paul told him, hoping this would help reassure him.

“Yeah, right,” John snorted. 

Paul looked at him. The tight smile, the elusive eyes, the hands still abusing the poor doll’s head. He did not believe him at all. Probably thought it was a joke. John was insecure, that was a fact, but Paul had never understood how he could not just see how handsome he was. How naturally charming, in every physical transformation he went through. Everybody saw it; how couldn’t he? For reasons beyond his understanding – and at this point, he would not even try to understand them, seeing how now everything that went bad in his friends’ lives felt like his fault somehow – it made Paul really sad. He turned more fully towards him and lowered his voice. He hoped he sounded as serious as he felt.

“John, I mean it,” He told him, lowering his voice without really realizing it. “You are beautiful. Everything about you is beautiful. How can you not see that?”

John stared a bit wide-eyed at him, visibly taken aback, and Paul tried very, very hard not to blush. Okay, maybe that had sounded a _tiny_ bit gayer than it did in his head. One was not supposed to be that intense about their best mate’s beauty. But yet again, he could not help but truly mean those words.

“I mean… You know. That’s what people see in you. Just think you should know that,” He added in a painfully awkward voice. Then, for good measure, he tacked on: “We’ll all look stupid anyway.”

Jesus, he really needed to stop sounding like some old wise shaman. Being from the future could not excuse everything. He didn’t dare look at John again and thankfully it was time for them to put on the blouses and carry on with the crazy butchers experiment. He was then so preoccupied with trying not to throw up that it helped him not think about how weird he had sounded. 

What a pleasant day indeed.

A few days later, he was peacefully sleeping. Actually, peacefully was not exactly accurate: sure, for once he had not woken up drenched in his own sweat yet, but he was dreaming, he was vaguely aware of that, and somehow he could not wake himself up. He felt trapped and uneasy. There was a house, which did not look like any house he had ever owned but which was still his, and inside a party was raging on. From the outside, he could hear the voices laughing and toasting together. But no matter how many times he turned around the house, he could not find a door to get in. He spotted a high window and tried to get closer, maybe climb up on the visible old bricks, but as soon as he touched them, they all became completely smooth. He shouted to get the guests’ attention but nobody seemed to hear him over the music. He turned around the house again and suddenly it was night, and it was snowing. And he was not wearing shoes. Where were his shoes? He had given them to Mary. Maybe she had them with her, inside the house. If he could just reach that window to ask her…

A loud ringing suddenly startled him awake. He stayed spread in his bed a few seconds, breathing erratic and hair plastered to his forehead. Where was he? What…? He looked around the room and it came back to him. Right. London. 1966. Still not back home. 

When the ringing resonated again, he dragged himself out of bed, slid on a t-shirt and padded sleepily towards the living-room. He looked at the phone confusedly for a few seconds until he realized the ringing was not coming from it. Surely enough, the ringing echoed again and it was coming from the door. Paul turned on the lights and looked at the clock. Who the hell would ring his door at 4 in the fucking morning? And be so obnoxious about it, too?

Feeling a bit stressed suddenly (maybe it was a crazy fan who had found out where he lived), he went to the cupboard, took out a frying pan (a knife would be more efficient if he was faced with a crazed person but he just knew he would be unable to use it) and got closer to the door, making sure not to make any noise. He peeped through the hole, pan raised in his left hand. But right after, he found himself lowering his arm. Lights were dim in the hallway, but…

He opened the door on a sheepish John. Dishevelled and much paler than usual, he was holding a duffel bag over his shoulder.

“Hi,” He started, clearly embarrassed. “So, Cyn kicked me out. Can I stay here tonight?”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one is short and not great, but, meh

He was gobsmacked. Staring at John, the pan still in his hand, his eyes still burning and half opened from sleep. They stood like that, face to face, for who knew how long until John cleared his throat and shifted his weight to his other foot, clearly getting uncomfortable. 

“Can I, uh… Can I get in? I can leave early, you know, I just. Don’t really know where else to go right now,” He told Paul, misinterpreting his prolonged silence. “With Richie and the baby, and George and… Pattie…”

The uncertainty in his voice finally brought Paul out of his trance. He started, and finally took a step aside. 

“No! Yeah, sorry, get in. You can stay, of course,” He hurried to say.

He shut the door after John and watched him put his duffel bag down against the wall. A thousand questions were speeding in his head, but a glance at the big dark circles under John’s eyes dissuaded him from asking any. What his friend clearly needed right now was to sleep – questions could wait. Even if Paul felt a bit like the world was crumbling down around him. How could things go so wrong…?!

“I’ll get you a blanket,” He forced out anyway. 

John dumbly nodded, the gratefulness on his face clear as day. Paul went to his bedroom and opened the cupboard to get a blanket. What was going on? How could Cynthia kick John out?! It made no sense. She was so sweet, so level-headed… and she loved John more than anything, she always had. It was pure madness. And yet… 

He took one of the few blankets he actually owned and went back to the living-room, where sure enough John was still standing awkwardly next to his duffel bag. Seeing him look so uneasy caused a twinge in Paul’s heart. He sent him a warm smile and started unfolding the blanket over the couch, moving the extra cushions to the coffee table. 

“Are you thirsty? Or hungry? I need to go to the groceries but I have some bread and butter if you want,” He told John, feeling like a mother hen. 

“No, no, I’m fine, don’t worry. I’ll go when I wake up, don’t bother,” John ushered to answer. 

Paul stopped fluffing out the cushion and turned to him with a frown. 

“Don’t be stupid. You can stay here as you long as you want.”

He didn’t look long enough to see John’s reaction but after a few moments, he felt his presence right next to him. Paul stood up and put his hands on his hips, looking at the makeshift bed.

“I’ll leave you to it, then. It being the night and all,” He told John. 

He left for the hallway then, his sleepy feet drawing him there even though his mind was still reeling, when a soft and heartfelt voice rose behind him and made him stop.

“Thank you.”

Paul flashed him a smile.

“Good night, John.”

He had almost reached his bedroom when the answer arrived, so quietly.

“Good night, Macca.”

He didn’t want to get up. His bed was so soft, and his eyes burned so hard that getting up seemed like the hardest thing in the world. But coffee sounded quite nice too. He was so tired that it was necessary if he wanted to be at least vaguely useful for the day. He threw on an old sweater and some sweatpants (which had been very hard to find, fashion having not quite reached the comfort clothes point yet) and padded out of his room, trying to rub the sleep away from his face. He entered the living-room and froze when he caught side of a hump on the couch. It took him a good five seconds to remember why there was someone sleeping on it.

John was still deeply asleep, head tucked against the back of the couch, half rolled into a ball but with one socked foot hanging loose. It was weird, seeing him here. Even if now his life was basically a succession of weird events. 

A quick look into his fridge confirmed that going to the groceries was a necessity, so he quickly got prepared, took his keys and left, making as little noise as possible. It was still pretty early, the best moment of the day in his opinion: few people in the streets, shy light piercing through the clouds, the air brisker and crispier than at any other time. He went to his usual places, making sure to take double the amount of everything he was used to getting, be it vegetables, dairy, eggs, cereals or beans. He even quickly visited the nearby butcher, figuring it would bring John some comfort to eat juicy bacon and a couple of sausages. Maybe it would embarrass John; he would probably make fun of him, of how much of a housewife he’s being, but he didn’t really mind. He didn’t want to crush the kindness in him in fear of some mild embarrassment. Kindness was a good thing, and he had discovered many times in his life that it was too easy to forget it.

He ended up with awfully heavy bags and once again blessed the strength if his ‘new’ body. When he finally got home, struggling to open the door with his full hands, he was surprised to find the living-room empty. He went straight to the kitchen, empty as well, put down the bags and went for a little tour round the house. John’s bag was still here, so at least he hadn’t just left without notice. He ventured in the corridor and sure enough, there was the sound of water running coming from the bathroom. Ear against the door, Paul smiled before going back to the kitchen to store his groceries.

Paul was in the middle of preparing an almost full English breakfast when John finally left the bathroom and padded into the kitchen, dripping hair and rumpled shirt on. He gave Paul a tight smile and approached the empty bags Paul had left on the table. His gaze lingered on the butchery one. He turned to Paul with a frown. 

“I thought you didn’t eat meat anymore,” He said, sounding almost accusatory, as if Paul had lied to him before. 

Paul glanced at him and shook his head. 

“It’s for you.”

Paul turned back to his eggs without waiting for a response. He heard some ruffling behind him indicating John was probably throwing the bags into the bin and then, no noise anymore. When breakfast was finally ready, Paul placed everything onto two plates and set them on the table. John had gone somewhere in the meantime but Paul didn’t have time to call for him that he suddenly appeared at the door, looking shy and embarrassed.

“You don’t have to do...” He gestured vaguely at the table. “All this, you know. I can leave, really.”

“Stop saying that, I told you it’s fine,” Paul huffed. “It’s not like you never stayed over at my place. Or I at yours.”

Emphasizing his words, he sat at the table and gestured at John to do the same. But his friend was still hovering uncertainly, as if there was still something keeping him from accepting his hospitality. Which was ironic, seeing how he was the one who had showed up in the middle of the night.

“John. Sit. Eat,” Paul chastised him, giving him the big eyes. 

That finally earned him a smile and John sat in front of him, starting timidly on his breakfast. The two were eating quietly, nothing but the faint sound of traffic and of birds from the near Regent’s Park coming to their ears. Paul threw a few glances at John, trying to be discreet about it. He was curious, so curious. What could have gone so wrong between them? There had to be something big. Something that did not happen in his old timeline – or at least, not to that extent. Cynthia had to be devastated, besides the probable anger. This breakup was coming what, two years early? Even more, if he strictly counted in months. And what about Jude? Could he even understand what was happening? Was John going to move out completely? Would he ever see his son again? Something even worse crossed his mind. Would he really care if he didn’t…?

Not liking where his own thoughts were going, he decided to break the silence and actually talk to the first concerned here. After all, this had to be a big blow for John. Just looking at his tired face said a lot.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Paul asked gently.

John kept chewing for a while, eyes on his plate, before slowly shaking his head. 

“We fought. She kicked me out. Nothing much to say.”

“But did something happen? I mean, you fight a lot, but…”

“We sort of talked about the, uh, other girls. You know. And other things. She didn’t like it, so,” John explained with an exhausted voice. Then, with a deep sigh. “Out was I on me merry way.”

“In the middle of the night?” Paul couldn’t help but wonder.

John looked up.

“It was a long fight,” He mysteriously answered.

Paul nodded, not really understanding better but accepting it for an invitation to drop the subject. They went on with their meal in a companionable silence, even if it was a bit depressed on John’s side. Paul was soaking up the grease and tomato juice with what was left of his bread when John suddenly looked up and stared at him with squinty eyes, despite his glasses.

“We didn’t win any Grammies,” He suddenly said.

Paul just looked at him with a slight confused frown. They had had the results more than two weeks prior. Was he really just realizing that now?

“Uh, yeah. I know.”

“I know you know. Because you said we wouldn’t.”

Paul shook his head a little too quickly.

“I never said that. I didn’t say anything,” He protested.

“I’m on to you.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

John sent him a mischievous grin and Paul suddenly felt warmer. 

After some more convincing from Paul, John finally ‘accepted’ to just stay at his apartment and stop being ‘such a prick about it’. At first John kept telling him it was only temporary, that he would start looking for his own place very soon, but after the first two days he sort of gave up finding excuses and Paul took it as a silent agreement between them that he would stay as long as whenever. They would start recording again soon anyway, and Paul could use the company – and distraction from his troubled mind and sleepless nights. There were drawbacks of course: John was sometimes loud, messy, even with the few things he had brought with him, and having him in the living-room prevented Paul from actually getting up when he woke up in the middle of the night. So now, instead of going for a walk or starting his day early, he actually had to stay in his room and… wait. Or stare at the ceiling for hours. So, not great.

But during the day, it was nice having John around. He was always ready to crack a joke or make fun of Paul’s habits (the number of times he had called Paul a grandpa in those few days was clearly a bad sign, but still, it made Paul equally laugh and wince). He even tried to help Paul sometimes, or at least pretend to which was as good as he was ever going to get. He had a surprisingly full schedule, so Paul did not have to worry about entertaining him. All in all, it was a bit like having a cat around: it eats your food, scratches at your furniture when you turn your back and whines when you don’t pay attention to it, but it leaves you space to live your life and is there when you need company. A great cat, of course. The best. Actually he was a lot better than a cat, obviously, and human, but. Still. He sort of reminded Paul of a great human cat.

On the first day of recording, Paul was so terrified he did not dare say a word for fear of throwing up. They had arrived way too early (and John had been quite grumpy about that), giving Paul time to re-familiarize with the Abbey Road studios. It was an eerie feeling. He had been to the studios in later years, but seeing it in its original state was very different. Seeing his own instruments waiting for him in the room, recognizing George’s and John’s guitars, spotting their names tapped on their back room… it was a lot to take in. Thankfully, they would start working on one of John’s songs, ‘Tomorrow Never Knows’; watching John write it again had been quite surreal but also exciting, sort of like a gift for Paul, who got to be more of a privileged witness than he had been the first time around. He could watch John work literally all day long. He had been careful to bring in the few details he knew he had brought the first time, but apparently he had managed to be inconspicuous enough for John not to notice he already knew the song.

For now though, they were all grouped in the lounge, re-acquainting with one another around a cup of tea or coffee. Probably for the first time in his life, Paul was all for losing time, not really eager to go to recording just yet. He was sitting in a corner with George and Geoff, idly chatting when he caught John leaving the room from the corner of his eye, probably to go to the bathroom. Thinking about him got him to think about his situation again, and about Cynthia. In another time, she would have been here for the first day of recording. Pattie was here – even Maureen had come in to stay hello, even if she had not stayed long since she had to look after Zak. So being here without Cynthia felt weird. Not normal. It was strange to live the same experiences again, but somehow, it was even stranger when details such as this were different.

He had trouble believing it was over for real between them. Last time, it had been clear because Yoko was in the picture. But this, here? Cynthia kicking John out in the middle of the night…? It sounded completely surreal. There had to be more than what John had told him. He knew she wouldn’t have kicked him out so brutally for cheating, or for telling lies – or not telling them sooner. He knew it for a fact since she hadn’t in his past. Then again, maybe these things were different too now. Maybe she was not the same. But still, something bugged him with this.

“She wouldn’t have kicked him out for that,” He whispered, more to himself than anything else.

“Well, she didn’t, so,” George’s voice answered him. 

Paul looked up and saw George taking a long drag of his cigarette and glancing at him. Apparently, he had been watching John leave the room too.

“You’re talking about Cynthia, right? ‘Cause she didn’t kick him out. He left her.”

A blank filled Paul’s mind for a few seconds, the information not quite reaching his brain.

“What? But, no, he told me she broke up with him.”

George blew out the smoke and shook his head. 

“Nope. He just left. Cyn immediately called Pattie about it, she was pretty upset.”

Paul gasped, feeling like he had been duped for something greater than who-broke-up-with-who. It the great scheme of things, he guessed it did not change much, but he felt whiplashed anyway. As if there was some meaning to it, somewhere, but he could not quite put his finger on it. He did not notice George was still studying him.

“I don’t understand why you give so much credit to what he says,” George finally asserted, shaking his head. “Who cares how it happened, it’s done now. And he’s a master bullshitter, anyway.”

“But he’s my friend,” Paul retorted, almost offended. “Why wouldn’t he just tell me the truth? He knows I won’t judge him.”

“Yeah but John lies when he’s upset. You know that.”

John lies when he’s upset. John lies when he’s upset. The sentence smacked him right in the face.  
_John lies when he’s upset_.  
It was true. It was. Paul had just somehow conveniently forgotten that not-so-glorious fact about his friend. God. Be reminded of that earlier would have saved him a lot of trouble.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like this one a tiny bit more so I thought I would publish it now to just forget about the previous one. Thank you again :)!  
And I'm back to tumblr, so if you want to say hi, don't hesitate!  
purechocolade.tumblr.com

They were about to wrap the session when Paul started to feel truly fatigued. He hadn’t done much all day, though: fiddled with his bass a little and recorded his track, humoured George Martin about how many track lines they should use - even if he didn’t actually _say_ anything to him. He did not really participate in any efficient, constructive conversation. He was sure everyone had noticed; Ringo had at least, if his worried glances were anything to go by. But he was exhausted. His arms were so sluggish raising them on the neck of his bass was starting to get painful, and he had trouble keeping his eyes open when they were not actively doing something. 

He was so tired his patience was also wearing thin. When he heard George strumming something that sounded awfully close to ‘Taxman’ but not quite yet, the urge to tell him what to change to make it sound just like the actual song was so strong he had to bite his tongue and go for an extended bathroom break (and at that point, he sorely missed smoking). It was so hard to hear the songs not being ready yet, not being quite right and seeing the others fumble around the good chords without actually… _finding_ them. It was a true test for his self-control.

He kept hearing John’s voice in his head telling him to just take things as they came and not to stress too much about it, but there was this burning sensation in his stomach every time he kept himself from just rushing everyone into playing the right thing already. At this rate, he would get an ulcer under a week. Nevertheless, he was happy to hear ‘Tomorrow Never Knows’ again. He had missed it. He had missed this, recording with the boys, creating things with them. See them laugh together and string crazy words together when they didn’t have the lyrics just yet. He was struggling to live it rather than just observe it, but he was trying, and at some moments it worked and he almost felt at home. 

They were going home after that first session, nearing two in the morning, driving on near-empty streets around Regent’s Park. John was unsurprisingly high and kept pulling on his seatbelt, complaining that it wasn’t long enough to ‘let him breathe’. Paul was quiet, exhausted. Wondering if he could get some sleeping pills or anxiolytics without actually going to a doctor. He had thought about going to a doctor before, but the more he thought about it, the less he wanted to do it. He did not exactly fancy telling his life story to justify his need of pills. 

“Did you know that one?” John suddenly asked him, keeping his seatbelt at arm length and looking at Paul through hooded eyes.

“That one what?” Paul answered, not bothering to hide his tiredness.

“Song. Today. Did you?”

Paul just nodded, feeling John’s eyes still on him.

“Do you just. Know all of them?”

Paul took the time to look around and turn on his indicator before answering as simply as he could.

“Yes. More or less.” 

John only hummed and looked at the dark buildings outside, probably already disinterested. Not like Paul was a very interesting man these days anyway.

The two of them had not actually talked, during the day. After George’s revelation, Paul had sort of avoided him, but tactfully enough that John had not seemed to notice any change. He had blamed it on the need to stay professional, carry on with the work and worry about personal details later. 

Now, though, now could be the time to confront John about the whole ‘lying’ situation: his friend was a bit high, sure, but he was most of the time anyway so it wasn’t like it would change much. Paul wanted to know why he had lied to him. It gnawed inside him, to think that John did not trust him enough, or that he did not want him to know the real reason of Cynthia’s and his breakup. Or that he didn’t care if Paul knew the truth or not. Or that he did not value their friendship enough to bother with it. It was crucial for Paul, and not only because he liked knowing everything about everyone. Not only because he liked being in control – it was not like in was in control of anything anymore, anyway. He just craved to understand _why_.

But still, when he tried to phrase the start of the conversation in his head, words just didn’t come to him. He looked at John again, all innocent and sleepy. He didn’t want to bring forth another dispute, another hard conversation. There was peace between them right now, and if John had lied to him, even if it was hurtful, it had to have been for a reason. Who was Paul to decide John had to tell him the truth? Or that his reasons for lying were not good? He was a grown man. This was his relationship, his marriage. Maybe it was easier for both of them to pretend Cynthia had kicked him out. Maybe it was for the best. It was not _that_ game-changing whether he knew the truth or not.

Paul wanted to laugh at himself. Who was he kidding? Of course it was. Not knowing hurt. Being lied to was excruciating. But the idea of facing the reasons why just hurt more. He was too tired for it. So, yeah. At the end of the day, he was just a coward.

They were finishing their breakfast together in the kitchen, about to go get ready for another recording session, when John suddenly dropped it.

“When was the last time you slept through the night?”

Paul stopped mid-chewing his cereals and looked up with a frown.

“Wha’?” He crunchily asked.

John sighed and put his fork back on the table.

“I hear you tossing and turning in your room. And going to the bathroom at random hours. And you look like shit, you know. It’s worse every day,” He elaborated.

“Thanks for that,” Paul snorted.

“You can’t sleep, can you?”

Paul paused to look at his soggy cereals. John had only been at the apartment for a little over a week. He had not thought he would pick up on that that quickly. He did not have any answer ready. Apparently, his lack of answer was an answer in itself, though.

“You can’t go on like that, mate,” John continued, very softly. “You’ve lost weight.”

“Since when do you keep track of my weight? Did you join the Weight Watchers or something?” Paul tried to joke.

“I always keep track of you,” John answered seriously.

What did _that_ even mean?

“I can take care of myself,” He replied, feeling suddenly on the defensive for some reason. 

“Do you?”

“I’m taking care of it, yes. Now shut up, please.”

“No need to be a bitch about it. Sorry to worry about you, your highness,” John spat out in retaliation.

Paul sighed and took his head in his hands.

“I’m alright, okay? I’ve had trouble sleeping but it’s going to get better.”

John levelled him with a quirked eyebrow that was so sassy that had he been a tiny bit less drained, Paul would have laughed.

“I promise.”

John pushed his chair and rose to bring his things to the brink, patting Paul on the head in the process.

“Good boy,” He said.

Then he just left the room. Paul heard him rummage through his bag then go to the bathroom. He was whistling The Hollies.  
Well. Guess he really needed to get better, now.

He’d found a doctor the next morning. Not the best one, obviously, but one that was star struck enough to forget his deontology and to agree to just prescribe him the strongest medication – officially, ‘sleeping pills’ – existing without having to explain why he couldn’t sleep in the first place. The excuse ‘work is stressful’ was all it had taken. It was bad, Paul knew it, and he probably should never go to him again if he ever needed some actual health care. But at least he got what he wanted, so he couldn’t complain. The doctor had said he should not take more than two pills before going to bed as they were quite strong, and he was not kidding. Paul took two on the first night and John had to shake him for apparently near fifteen minutes to wake him up the next morning. Seeing his wide eyes and pale face hovering over him, Paul guessed he had to have scared him pretty bad. But at least, he was sleeping again. It was only temporary anyway. He was young again, his body could endure it and he’d be just fine.

He had a bit of trouble adapting to it, though. He had so lost the habit of sleeping that now he was just sleepy all the time. The next two recording sessions thus went in a blur of voices, sounds and hands. He felt lighter and as a consequence, found it easier to laugh and not to care. He had even accepted a fag from George during a break, which he had then felt very stupid about so he just stared at it, threw it away, and took George’s to crush it under his heel as well. George had not liked that – he had probably never heard him shriek like that either – but he did not care how weird it made him look. Seeing George literally killing himself one cigarette at a time was way too painful anyway. Usually, he was just too self-conscious to actually do anything about it. But thanks to the relaxing/sleeping/who-knew-what-exactly pills, Paul did not care anymore. It was a nice change.

On the next day, John had gone to see friends at a museum and Paul was bored. He had finished his latest painting, and was too both sleepy and restless to play some music. So he was just drinking a bear and idly switching between the two channels on TV, his eyelids dropping regularly, feeling like a poor excuse of a man for not doing anything useful of his time. He hated it, feeling useless. And yet, he could not find anything better to do. Who would have known he would spend a Saturday afternoon dozing off on his couch. It was pathetic, really.

Suddenly, he bolted awake. The sun was shining in the apartment, so it was still the early afternoon. He looked around his room, looking for anything entertaining, and his gaze fell upon John’s bag on the armchair, the rolled up blanket waiting on the side and his clothes scattered around. Poor John. His couch was comfortable but he had to miss his own bed. An idea suddenly came to him. 

He had just found an activity for the day.

One thing Paul had not spent much time doing in his past was reading. It was not that he didn’t like it – he had just never devoted enough time to it. It had seemed like something unattainable, that he would never be able to really do, even in his old age. Seeing a copy of _Flowers for Algernon_ in the Best-Sellers of the week in the nearest bookshop had nonetheless switched something on in his mind and made him pause. The fact that he recognized the title, and that it was apparently a good enough book to have passed the test of time, seemed like a sign. When he came out of the shop with his brand new copy in his hands, he was curiously happy. This time, he would take the time to read books, not just glaze over newspapers. After all, it was not his devastatingly boring social life that would keep him from finding the time to do it. And it wasn’t like he had much to learn from the newspapers nowadays.

So now he was re-discovering the joys of reading and had made himself a little nest on the couch, buried in the blankets and cushions, a fuming tea waiting on the coffee table and a little lamp lit up right next to him. Weirdly enough, he felt more like a grandfather now than when he was babysitting his own grandchildren. 

A key in the door let him know John was arriving, but it was still not enough to make him move.

“Hello hello Grandpa,” John saluted him with a smile, dropping his satchel on the nearest chair and taking off his jacket.

“Hi,” Paul answered, his eyes glued to the book.

A short silence.

“Where are my things?” John asked in a quiet voice. 

Paul looked up and turned his head to him. There was confusion and something unidentified in John’s eyes. 

“In the music room,” Paul answered with a half-shrug, diving straight back into his book.

John did not answer and just went down the corridor. There were a few moments of silence during which Paul just forgot about him until he came running back, barging in front of him and almost tipping over the couch. Paul looked up and caught him staring, short of breath and wide-eyed. Paul did not immediately connect the dots.

“You bought me a bed,” John disbelievingly stated. 

Oh. _That_.

The surprise and awe on John’s face was overwhelming, and almost too much to bear. Paul felt an uncalled for blush spread on his neck. He was not even feeling coy about buying the bed – it had only been a reasonable and logical decision after all – but John’s reaction was not what he had expected. And it was making him all warm. Too warm, seeing how he was already covered in heavy blankets.

“Well, yeah, of course. You can’t sleep on the couch forever, can you,” He replied, going for casualness, hoping John would not notice his embarrassment. 

John gaped at him and Paul squirmed on his spot.

“It’s just a bed, John. Not a Rolls Royce.”

“Well it’s still nice, arsehole,” John bit back, more out of reflex than anything. Then he added, softer: “Thank you. Really, I’m… thank you.”

Paul shrugged, feeling weird.

“You’re welcome.”

John smiled at him, then suddenly turned around and went down the corridor again. 

“Have you eaten already?” He shouted unnecessarily loud, apparently from the bathroom.

“Yes,” Paul answered, shouting just as loud. “Have you?”

“Yeah, I had a crab-shrimp thingy, it was all spongy and grey.”

Paul giggled at his book.

“Sounds delicious,” He joked.

“Come on man, just come here, I don’t want to shout all night. I need to preserve my lovely voice,” John shouted again, sounding like an actual five-year-old.

Paul sighed, dropping his head backwards on the armrest. Pushing off the blankets was harder than expected and once out in the open a shiver ran down his spine, so he picked one of the blankets up and rolled himself in it before padding out slowly towards the bathroom. When he arrived at destination, he just leaned against the wall and watched John, already with his slacks off but still wearing his dark red jumper, religiously applying toothpaste on his toothbrush. It was an original vision and made him miss their even younger days.

“I think I’m going to go see my Dad next time we have a week-end. You wanna come?” Paul proposed, thinking of it as he was talking.

After the briefest frozen hesitation, John looked up from his toothpaste with a grimace and looked at him through the mirror.

“To your Dad’s?”

“To Liverpool, idiot. But yes you can come to my Dad’s too, he would be happy to see you.”

“As if,” John snorted, raising his toothbrush to his mouth.

“Come on, times have changed, you know. Water under the bridge and all that,” Paul smiled, pushing on John's arm and making him miss his mouth.

John groaned but Paul could see the tremors in his lips proving he was amused by it.

“Why does it sound like you’re asking me on a date? I'll let you know you won't win me over with that. It is not very romantic, you know. You should definitely work on your moves,” John piped up, changing the subject. 

Parents had never really been John’s thing. He had never really known how to behave around them. Especially with Paul’s dad, even though he had known him for almost ten years now. In that year.  
Feeling himself get confused by dates again, Paul just laughed and pushed John fully against the towel rack this time.

“Shut up. Come. It’ll be fun.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright, Princess.”

“Yay!” Paul mocked, raising his hands under his blanket.

John grinned at him, foam all over his mouth, trying to look as disgusting as possible. But weirdly enough, Paul still thought he looked alright.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't meant that one to stop there but it would have been way too long (according to my criteria) so, there you go.  
I know Paul and John's reactions might seem weird, but I promise, it will all be explained. I just love overly complex schemes of thought, sorry :(

For the first time in months, Paul woke up naturally at the end of his sleep cycle. He was so confused by it that for the first few seconds, he just stared at his window, lying on his side, trying to find what bad dream he had very certainly just been dragged out of. But he came up empty. 

It was strange to feel… sort of rested. He was still feeling a little drowsy, but all in all he was better and more prepared for the day than he had been in a while. So he got up, got dressed, even opened the window to let in some fresh (very fresh) air. Fresh air was getting rarer in the apartment since John had arrived, the lad smoking quite like a chimney at times. So Paul also left his room door open, hoping to create some purifying breeze, and walked to the kitchen with an almost prancing tilt to his movements. He was so glad to have some energy back that he could not find the patience to actually sit down or prepare anything, so he just put on a kettle and grabbed a banana, looking at the trees outside. He was relieved to notice he was not as scared to face the recording day as he had been the past week. He did not know what they would be doing today, but he knew he would be able to face it. 

“Why the fuck did you open your window?” 

Paul turned to John, who was still in his (summer) pyjamas and holding himself with both arms, sleepy face and sleepy hair on.

“Just close it,” He answered with a shrug.

John winced at him, sighed and turned back around. Paul stared at the archway after him, unwanted feelings bubbling up once again to the surface. 

_He’s lying to you_. 

The sentence kept repeating itself in his mind, often at the most random moments. When they would take their coffee break at the studio and both laugh at one of George’s jokes. When they would enter Paul’s car to go home. When John would fall asleep in front of the TV and start snoring. When he would purposefully take ages to leave the bathroom just to piss Paul off. Everything would be fine, and then, suddenly, Paul would just look at John’s smile and remember that he had chosen to lie to him about a very important part of his life. And every time, hurt would come whacking Paul all over again.

He was trying so hard to be a big man about it. To let John the space he apparently needed and to wait for him to come to him and talk about it. Explain what really happened and why he lied about it in the first place. But days passed, and John did not say anything. Nobody said anything really, even though at this point Paul was certain they all knew what had happened – and he was pretty sure that if George had told _him_ the truth, Ringo knew it too. And yet, it was as if nobody cared. Or at least, nobody cared as much as Paul did. John’s breakup with Cynthia had already been heart-breaking for him the first time around, but now, it was just ten times worse. This time, it wasn’t even for another woman; John had not even met Yoko yet. It all just seemed so meaningless.

Starting to feel his own fingers freezing from standing still for so long, he shook himself out of his thoughts and threw out the peel of his banana. No need to wallow in it once again. John would end up telling him the truth – of course he would. It was just a matter of time.

“Paul.”

Paul looked up from the piano to see George Martin staring straight at him. His frowning eyebrows and his elbows bent over the piano meant business.

“Are you alright?” He asked, direct.

Paul gaped a little at him. It was a simple question with an oh-so complicated answer. He threw a quick glance around the room, hoping for a Deus Ex Machina to come and save him, but everyone else was busy talking or tending to their instruments/tech. He never quite knew how he felt, nowadays. And working surely was not as easy as it used to be. And he knew that when by asking that, George was thinking about his songs - or lack thereof. It’s not like his _Revolver_ songs weren’t ready, because, well, they were, and he had explained the ones he was sure of to John, vaguely, but. Still.

“I can tell the difference between you two, son,” George Martin went on, showing the figure of John in the background with his head. Just as Paul thought. “And the two songs we did? And those two others I’ve heard you lads talk about? Not yours. And I can’t help but notice it’s a bit… unusual. To do only John’s songs. Or George’s.”

Paul tried to keep his voice level and casual.

“No, no, I’m fine, mine are coming. It’s just a coincidence, George. Don’t worry.”

The older man stayed silent, visibly trying to read his mind, then gave him a small smile and a nod and went back to the monitor room, stopping to say a word to John on the way.

“So. Which one will it be?” A low voice drawled beside him.

Paul turned to his right. He had not even noticed George was still there, as always stuck with his guitar, a smile on his bony (so fucking young) face. And he didn’t know, was the thing. He had no idea in what order they had recorded them the first time – if that even mattered anymore, which he strongly doubted – and did not know which order was best. He was not even a 100% sure he remembered the album’s exact track list. What if he made them start working on something that was supposed to come out years later? Would it be a total flop if it arrived too soon?

“I’m… I’m not quite sure yet,” Paul hesitated, trying to evade the issue. “What are you in the mood for?”

George pouted at that, thinking it over while pushing an annoying multi-socket with his foot.

“Don’t know. Something soft maybe. My head hurts a little,” He finally let out. “Pattie couldn’t sleep last night, so me neither, if you know what I mean.”

Paul was not sure he did but he nodded understandably anyway. He glanced at his acoustic guitar waiting on the side, then at Ringo, Geoff the sound engineer and John talking animatedly a little further. Then at George’s tranquil face. Something soft.

He got up, went to grab his guitar and settled down on the chair nearest the piano. Something soft. He had not been consciously thinking of any song, but still notes started pouring out of his fingers, as if by magic. The meaning of the song was obsolete, now. Anachronic, even, ever since he had left Jane. But for some reason, it was not about her he was thinking when the words started to flow over the chords, so, so easily. It was a short one, and he still knew it by heart. It was his favourite, after all.

“That’s a good one,” a voice suddenly piped up. 

Paul looked up in a flash, his heart beating suddenly faster. John was staring at him, elbows on the piano just like George Martin right before him, who was standing behind him with crossed arms and an appreciative look on his face.

“I like it,” He added with a half-shrug, as if giving a compliment, even more with both Georges nearby, was physically painful.

Paul felt more than he realized a big grin split his face in half. Of course he liked it.

“I know,” He couldn’t help but answer, not caring if that sounded cocky or just plain stupid.

John looked at him with amusement in his eyes, which soon reached the totality of his face.

“Are you thinking of piano on it? It would—” George Martin started, sounding genuinely interested.

“No,” John suddenly cut him off.

They all turned to him, surprised. George even let out a little snicker of amusement. But John only smiled at Paul, not caring in the least how rude he had sounded. Then, with a determination that impressed Paul himself, he elaborated:

“That one’s Paul’s. We don’t touch it.”

And the crazy thing was, they didn’t.

“How is Julian taking it then?”

Ringo’s question was innocent, and legitimate, and yet, it had very surely cast a chill over the table. They were at the cafeteria of the studio, enjoying a warm meal after having worked on ‘Here, There and Everywhere’ nearly all day long. Paul froze, and from the corner of his eye he saw George do the same on his right. Even Geoff in front of him seemed to be suddenly chewing much slower. 

Without surprise, a glance towards John next to Geoff told Paul the question was not exactly welcome. His back stiffened, lips tightening into a thin line. When he looked at Ringo, sitting at the end of the table next to Paul, there was a clear warning in his eyes.

“It’s a baby. Not like he knows what’s happening, is it?” He answered, cold.

“I don’t know. Maureen says they can feel these things. Emotions and all,” Ringo went on just as sternly, decided to get his answer. 

And Paul had to give it to him, it was gutsy to push John when he looked like _that_.

“Are you going to see him?”

Geoff widened his eyes, ping-ponging between the two. He was probably expecting John to pounce on Ringo. Paul would not be surprised either. But Ringo had a point. He didn’t want a fight – just thinking about John’s breakup brought another wave of hurt in him – but he had a very good point.

“I think you should push your chair back a little, Richie, I see a vein turning purple on his neck,” George joked. 

“He’s right,” Paul chided in, John’s eyes sliding immediately to meet his in an icy glare. “Jules may not understand what’s happening, but he’s not stupid. You said it yourself. He must be scared.”

George was now bringing his chicken leg to his mouth with his hands, both elbows on the table and raised eyebrows. He was clearly enjoying it, the fucker. John, on his part, was less amused. But for some reason, after an intense glare competition with Paul, his eyes started to soften and his whole demeanour changed slowly, like a bomb being disarmed one thread at a time.

“If we don’t record on Friday, I’ll go and see him,” He relented before diving back into his plate as if it was nothing. 

Paul was beyond confused: talking about his way of parenting was one of the surest ways to get John really pissed off in no time, and once he was heated, there was no convincing him of anything on the matter. Seeing him agreeing like that, so quickly, was nothing short of a miracle, and Paul would have loved to see what was going through his mind to explain it.  
After a short silence, George whistled lowly and Ringo chuckled, soon followed by Geoff.

“Shut up,” John spat out, not looking up from his plate.

And at that, Paul couldn’t help but laugh too. 

When that Friday came, that they were indeed not working and that Paul saw John get ready in the morning to actually _go and see his son_, he was so stunned he just sat in the couch, speechless, watching him. John had even woken up earlier than him – which was not that unusual anymore with the sleeping pills, but still. Paul kind of wanted to go with him. He loved Julian. And it was stupid, but he loved seeing John with him. Sure, he would lose his temper very quickly and was sometimes a little too harsh and impatient with the child, but when things went well, there was something very soft about him that Paul had only ever seen when he was with Sean. In another life. 

But of course Paul would not go, even if he wanted to really, really bad. It was not his place, literally. He had no reason to go. He probably wanted to only because he had nothing planned for the day. And anyway, he was not ready to see Cynthia and her pain. Not as long as John had not told him the truth face to face at least, which had still not happened. A sharp pain rose in his belly again, as he watched John button up his coat, wave him goodbye with a smile and leave. 

How he could still smile at him and expect him not to care was beyond him. Did he really think Paul would never learn the truth? Did he think Cynthia was just going to let him tell lies to everyone? Or were the lies only reserved to Paul?

Paul forced himself to breathe deeply and relax the fists he had not noticed were tightening on his thighs. He would just go to a gallery, take a walk in the park, maybe read a little. Or play. Everything was alright. John would tell him, eventually. _Of course he would_.

Maybe if Paul repeated it enough in his head, it would end up being true.

When John finally came back home late that evening, Paul was already in bed but got out of it as soon as he heard the key in the lock. John looked bone-tired and probably didn’t want to have a chat at one in the morning, but Paul did not care. Even if he wouldn’t admit it to anyone – and not really to himself – he had thought about John and Julian all day long, wondering how things were going, if Cynthia was alright. If their situation had not gotten worse. If it had been a good day for him.

When he arrived into the living-room, John turned to him but did not smile. Not so great day, then. 

“You’re not sleeping?” John asked, throwing his jacket on the couch and taking off his sweatshirt. 

“The neighbours were loud,” Paul lied. “So, how was it?”

_I’m giving you an occasion on a silver plate here_, he thought, acutely observing John’s every movement. _Please, use it. Please_.

“Alright,” John let out, almost reluctantly.

Paul bit on his lip. _Come on. Come on_.

“I’m going to bed, I’m knackered. Night.”

John gave him a tight smile that did not reach his eyes and disappeared into the corridor. Paul stood alone in the living-room, trying to control his boiling emotions. He did not even know how he felt right now. He looked at John’s jacket on the couch and suddenly squatted and brought his fist to his mouth to keep himself from screaming. He shut his eyes as hard as possible, willing the anger, worry and frustration to just go away and let him alone. He didn’t need that. 

Fuck, he really didn’t.

After another very long and very exhausting week of late recording and bubbling frustration for Paul (he had ‘written’ ‘Paperback Writer’ again, and ‘Got to Get You Into My life’, _again_, even if John’s help on that one had been more than precious and he was not actually sure the song was exactly how it used to be) the journey to Liverpool was a nice change. 

They had decided to take Paul’s car, figuring they were not in a hurry and there would be less chances to be bothered by fans that way. Paul had talked himself into not bringing up anything linked to Cynthia whatsoever and to stop obsessing about it, and he had taken a little half of a relaxing pill before leaving, so he was pretty calm. And this far, it was working alright.

They listened to music, stopped to buy chips and ridiculous key rings at a strange road shop, talked about everything and anything. If John thought Paul was weird when he did not remember who John Profumo was or when he had suddenly started singing Queen after seeing a cyclist on the road, he did not mention it. Nothing seemed to matter, as if the Austin mini was a bubble protecting them from time, from the lies, from the outside world. They were laughing too, a lot. It even felt weird to laugh that much again, and Paul discovered he had missed it so much that now that that Pandora’s Box was open, he was only craving more. It was so nice he almost wished they would never arrive to their destination. 

They were however already approaching Liverpool and had let their conversation die down to a comfortable silence when a thought came to Paul.

“Are you going to see Mimi then?”

When no answer came, he finally turned to John, who was looking at him weirdly.

“What?” He asked, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

“Well, it’s gonna be hard to see her _here_ since she doesn’t _live here_ anymore,” John answered, speaking slowly as if he was not quite sure if Paul was having a go at him or not.

Paul frowned, stared at John, then frowned harder. He felt like an idiot but he really didn’t understand what his friend meant.

“She’s in Dorset, now,” John added, looking a bit spooked now. “We talked about it, it was even you who suggested it.”

“I did?” Paul questioned.

“You really don’t remember?”

“Hum… no?”

He could feel John’s stare on him but his neck felt already so hot that he didn’t dare turn his head and cross it. So instead, he kept his eyes on the road, feeling more stupid than ever. He knew it was not his fault that he did not remember – he could not remember where _everyone_ had ever lived, not after so many years – but still, it was a bit humiliating when seeing how John seemed to weirdly care about it.

“But… where are you staying then?” He blurted out, glancing at him again.

Something flickered in John’s eyes but it was gone too fast for Paul to recognize it. John took the time to stretch his legs and remove his arm from where it was leaning on the door before answering.

“Reckon I’ll just find a room somewhere. Maybe I’ll call one of my aunts, see if they mind,” He announced in a carefully blank voice.

Paul nodded. There was an annoying cramp growing in his stomach, which was coming out of nowhere. He suddenly feared that meant he would not actually see John during the weekend, and that idea frightened him. Which made no sense. Of course they would see each other. No, that was even more stupid. They didn’t _have_ to see each other, he was here for his family first. And it was not like he had invited John to his Dad’s place, anyway. They had been clear about that.

“I would have asked my father if he could have you stay too, but I... didn’t, uh…” He trailed on, not really knowing why he felt so bad about it.

“That’s… no, you’re kidding. It’s alright. And I’m not going to invade all your family. I mean, I’m already invading you, so” John replied a little fast.

Another silence fell on them, this time clearly more tense. Even if Paul did not even understand what he was tense about. Everything was alright. They didn’t have to live out of each other’s pockets, John didn’t mind and they would see each other soon enough. He was being ridiculous. It. It was ridiculous. God, he really needed to meet new people.

He turned into the street leading to his father’s house, the grey clouds totally hiding the midday sun. He had driven there out of habit, which was in itself quite a feat. He was so proud of his memory sometimes. He slowed down into a parking spot and turned off the engine. John was looking outside, one hand on his thigh and the other on the door, as if ready to bolt out any second. 

“You still coming to eat with us, right?” Paul questioned quietly, fearing the answer.

John turned to him.

“Yeah. Sure.”

His answer came a second too late and just confirmed Paul’s fears: if he hadn’t asked again, John would have just left with the first excuse available. And Paul felt angry with himself for caring so much.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Big™ chapter (not that big, but still big).

Lunch was weird. 

His brother and his girlfriend, another Angela, were there and Paul was happy to see them since he hadn’t in a while. His father was in a good mood too, and seemed surprisingly glad to see John. Angela and Ruth were just bundles of energy, as usual. The food was great, even if a little fat. But the cramp in his stomach was still nagging at Paul. He could not even look at his friend without feeling… just, weird. He did not even understand why and it was driving him insane.

“Tell me what you want then, it’s easier,” Mike laughed, looking at Ruth next to him. “If dolls are not good enough for you.”

“Oh no, don’t do that,” Angela told him, widening her eyes and shaking her head.

Mike frowned. 

“Why—“

“I want a rabbit!” Ruth shrieked, straightening on her chair and clutching Mike’s sleeve as if her life depended on it. “There is one at the store, he’s perfect, he’s brown and has fur in his ears and –“

“Jesus!” Mike breathed out, looking a little frightened, while his girlfriend just started laughing.

“– the cashier said he only cost three pounds with his box and–“

“There we go,” Jim commented, not raising his eyes from his plate. 

“You want a rabbit, then?” John butted in, sounding like there was a challenge there he couldn’t pass on.

Ruth turned to him so excitedly her chair worryingly cracked. 

“Yes! I’ll call him Peter Bubblegum! He has white spots on his belly and –”

“Please, don’t encourage her,” Angela almost begged.

“But Muuuuuum…!”

John turned to Paul with a mischievous smile, but Paul did not have the strength to laugh with him and he caught the corner of John’s lips fall down slightly. Thankfully, the serious voice of his father swooped in to catch his attention.

“Oh, that makes me think, Paul. Did you get your cat back, after all?”

Paul froze over his plate, his mind short-circuiting. What? His what? Who? He exchanged a glance with John, who seemed to pick up on his confusion and turned to Jim.

“You mean Thisbe? I thought she was still with Jane,” John said, throwing a new worried glance to Paul.

“I still don’t get that name, it’s just so weird,” Mike chuckled, passing the plate of potatoes over to his girlfriend who was silently dying of laughter.

Paul wanted to bang his head against the table. Thisbe. Oh God, Thisbe. He had completely forgotten the lovely ball of fur. Had he thought about her, he would have believed she had died already. Next to him, his father was still cutting his lamb, oblivious to Paul’s state. 

“When she called – when was it, already?” He turned to Angela, who made a pensive face. “Anyway, you were still in France. She wanted to know when you were coming to pick him up.”

“Her, Jim! She’s a girl, right Paulie?” Ruth exclaimed, offended in the name of Thisbe.

Paul numbly nodded, a bit dazed, and that only made Mike’s girlfriend laugh harder.

“I’m surprised she kept it,” Angela chided in. “She didn’t seem like the animal lover sort.”

“Can we have a cat?” Ruth jumped on the occasion, excitation colouring her cheeks.

“Oh my God,” Mike’s Angela wheezed out, bringing a napkin to her crying eyes.

“No, we can’t have a cat,” Angela sighed.

“But did… did she say she would keep her, if I didn’t come?” Paul probed his father, worried about his old cat.

“Listen son, I don’t know. It’s your pet, you can sort it out yourself,” His father answered a bit gruffly, which made John bark a small laugh and Paul glare. 

At least _he_ was having fun.

As should have been expected, Paul did not see John for the rest of the weekend. He tried very hard to focus on his family and to enjoy his time with them, which worked to some extent. They went for a very nice stroll all together, stopped for tea with his aunts, shared news, laughed at Ruth’s antics. Mike told him about his latest job and about a guitar he fancied getting himself. It was lovely, even if the weather was terrible. And yet, he could not help but feel something was off. The fact that he was worried about his cat and needed to go get her back only added fuel to his weird feeling. 

When he got to bed that night, he was relieved to have something to knock him off quickly.

They had not exactly expressed they would be coming back to London together, but still, when John phoned him on the next morning from one of his aunt’s to tell him he had booked a train ticket for the evening, Paul felt disappointment seeping into his every limb. It was foolish to feel like that – it was not like he was not seeing John often these days, with them living together and all. They spent nearly all their time together. He could not expect the man to just be there with him whenever he wanted. It was foolish. And yet, here he was, feeling disheartened and sorry for himself like a child to whom candy was denied. The day felt strangely longer after that call, but his family was loud and energetic enough to keep his mind busy. But when Paul found himself alone in his car at the end of the afternoon, silence his only companion, there was nothing left to stop the sadness from swallowing him whole.

Ridiculous.

When Paul arrived home that Sunday night, he was exhausted. The traffic had been horrible, he was hungry, sleepy, and his heavy bag was pulling annoyingly on his shoulder. He closed the front door, lit up the hall and his gaze was immediately caught by John’s bag, pushed against the wall. It sent a strange spark of happiness, anguish and guilt straight to his heart. He pushed it away before it had a chance to paralyze him.

“Hello!” He called out, hanging his jacket next to the door.

“Hey,” Came the muffled response from the kitchen.

Paul followed the sound and entered the room. John was sitting at the kitchen table and intently reading some page of a newspaper. He had both elbows on the table, his fists supporting his head, and looked pale but oddly concentrated.

“What are you doing?” Paul chuckled, going straight to the teapot.

“Looking for a house,” John mumbled, his mouth distorted by his fists.

Paul froze, hand on the tap. After a moment of silence, and sensing that not answering would be weird, he forced himself to clear his throat.

“Oh. Right.”

John didn’t answer but after a while he raised his head, swiped his nose with his sleeve and turned tired eyes to Paul.

“How was your weekend?” He asked, his voice so plain and flat it was almost more hurtful than if he hadn’t asked anything.

“Good, good,” Paul offered, his throat painfully dry. “Yours?”

“Alright.”

A silence settled upon them, and Paul was mortified to find he had no idea how to break it. Something was terribly off, and he hated it. But he was feeling so tired and sad that he did not have the strength nor the courage to face any of it – whatever _it_ was – yet.

“I’m heading to bed,” He told John, putting his tea cup in the sink and avoiding John’s eyes. “See you tomorrow.”

He left the room before John could answer.

The following week was a bit strange. Paul felt numb and he could not really explain why. The only thing he knew was that for some reason John barely looked at him anymore and that he’d never been so relieved to have something to help him sleep, even if that wasn’t working as well as it had in the beginning. They had not talked about John looking for a new house again, and Paul did not know how he felt about that. Thinking that John would move out eventually caused a pain in him that he did not want to read into. He had never been one to suffer from loneliness, but imagining what his life would be like if John was not there to finish all his bourbon biscuits behind his back was unbearable. He knew it was bound to happen eventually, but it had never been real in his mind up to then. Perhaps he should try to find a girlfriend.

Getting Thisbe back was a bit horrible. Thankfully he had kept the Ashers’ phone number, and fell on Jane’s father when he called. They still had the cat, but he didn’t know if Jane would want to give it back now. Paul spent the whole day thinking she would just refuse and keep it to herself, but when he came home, he was called again and Jane’s father told him he could pick Thisbe up in the morning. It was a very unpleasant visit, with Jane’s mother acting as cold as ice and being at the limit of rudeness with him, but at least he had his cat back. It was strange, to have a dead animal again. John was so happy to play with her when he came home that for a moment, Paul forgot he was going to move out and was still lying to him. For a short moment, it felt like Thisbe was their cat, to them both. And for some reason, that broke Paul's heart. 

For once, it was at work that things were the most normal. They recorded all the songs he remembered, and it was lovely to hear them again, to work on them again. He thought it would be boring as hell, but it was not after all, not totally anyway. There even was something reassuring in recording them again, as if things were being set straight, clocked into place. Sure, he still had to bite his tongue a lot of the time, but it was better than he’d thought. The most frustrating element was undoubtedly that he wasn’t really creating them with John. There wasn’t the back and forth exchange he remembered and missed. But it had to do. 

On their day off, for the 30th of April, Paul and Ringo decided to go out to the sea. With Maureen and Zak in toe, they piled in a car and drove off in the late morning. After a little picnic, Ringo and Paul got up to stretch their legs a little. The weather was a bit cold and windy, but the absence of rain allowed them to walk along the cobbled beach. They were not talking much, Paul enjoying Ringo’s soothing presence to try and calm his own stormy thoughts. Ringo was a constant in his life, the one true presence linking his lifetimes together. Paul loved him dearly, and had been more than happy to jump on the occasion when his friend had proposed him to go out together. 

At some point, they stopped to observe an old woman struggling to keep her grandson from running all clothed into the sea and they both softly giggled at the spectacle. It made Paul think of John and Julian. And Sean. And his own children. Would have John been a good grandfather? Would have they hung out together with their grandkids if he’d lived long enough to have any? Then, other thoughts invaded his brain, getting more and more pessimist by the minute. John and he had not really talked for days. He was not even sure why, it was just as if their trip to Liverpool had shattered a very fragile limit between them, and Paul did not know how to fix it. He did not even know what limit it was to begin with.

He got lost in his thoughts for a while, and when he finally turned to Ringo, his friend was watching him with something very tender on his face.

“Are you depressed or are you in love?” He suddenly asked, sounding very serious. 

Paul frowned at him, perplexed. Where did that even come from?

“Neither. Why do you…?”

Ringo turned back to the grandmother, now desperately pulling on her grandson’s t-shirt, and shrugged.

“I don’t know. You look so miserable these days. Always off in your own head, like just now. George noticed it too.”

Paul squatted to take a cobble and play with it. Anything to keep his hands busy and avoid thinking about what Ringo was saying implicated. Not knowing how else to flee the conversation, he went for a casual shrug. But seeing Ringo’s sad smile, it had not exactly reached the desired result.

“Have you and John fallen out, then?” He continued, as soft as ever.

Paul shook his head, but needed a few seconds to find his voice back.

“No. No, we’re fine,” He answered, not knowing how true that statement was.

“Whatever John did, he’ll come back around, you know. He’s a soft lad inside,” Ringo joked, laughing quietly.

Paul chose to laugh along, figuring this was a good way to let the subject drop. He had not realized he was being so transparent. He was so used to keeping everything to himself, and he had so often been reproached not to show anything, that it was startling to be called out like that. But then again, Ringo and George probably knew him better than anyone. Maybe even better than himself, nowadays.

Paul went to park his car in his garage, which was not far from his apartment, and walked home briskly, avoiding strangers’ eyes. He was feeling pretty good, the Ringo effect without any doubt. Maybe he would play a little, grab a bite then go to bed early. Yeah, it was a lovely plan. He was entering the hall of the building when soft voices in a corner made him stop. He turned to them and froze in place. 

It was John and an unknown woman, heads bent against one another. From his place Paul could only see the woman’s dazed and smiling face, but the way John’s arms encased her against the wall left no room for imagination about what they were talking about. It was not uncommon, to see John flirting with people. Especially not when he’d been smoking or drinking, and seeing the slack line of his shoulders, there was no doubt he was a little high. But seeing it then, there, hit Paul way harder than it was supposed to. Maybe it was the situation: the breakup, Paul’s loneliness, not having seen John that way in so many years. Whatever it was, Paul felt irritation fill him and words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them, sounding cold even to his own ears.

“Anyone could see you, you know.” 

John and the woman turned to him, and without surprise, John’s eyes were hooded. They locked gaze for a moment, ignoring the apparently drunk girl who started giggling uncomfortably. Then, John let his arms down and turned away from the girl, who just stopped giggling, more and more confused. 

“I was going home any road,” He slurred, going up the stairs without a look back. 

And that angered Paul even more, seeing the girl standing embarrassedly behind, left to her own devices and looking still very drunk. As if she suddenly lost all interest, as if her being suddenly did not matter anymore. Typical. Paul approached her, gave her a few pounds and told her to call a taxi from the telephone box just outside. The girl numbly nodded but did not say a word when Paul got up the stairs after John. When he got to the third floor, John was leaning against the door, apparently waiting for him. Which made no sense, since he had his own key pair, but Paul did not have the strength to question it and just opened the door.

The two entered the apartment, not saying a word and not even looking at each other. Paul abruptly took off his jacket and scarf and turned to stare at John’s back, who was kicking off his shoes. He was feeling all sorts of feelings he had not the patience nor the will to sort out. He was tired, so tired that his vision was blurry and there was a dull ache in his head. 

Then, it came out. He didn’t know where it came from, why at that specific moment. But it came out before he could even think about it.

“I know Cynthia didn’t kick you out.”

Even if he was still back to him, Paul saw John freezing. Then, ever so slowly, he put his jacket on the coat hanger and went to the living-room, not bothering to look at Paul. So Paul just followed him into the living-room, feeling the anger rising back in him. He couldn’t bear it anymore. The silence. 

“Why did you lie to me? Why did you come here if it’s just to lie to my fucking face?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’m a masochist,” John puzzlingly spat out. 

There was no slurring to his words anymore, as if Paul’s tangible anger had sobered him right away. Paul frowned. How did that answer even make any sense?!

“_What_? Just… just stop it with your bullshit for five fucking minutes, okay?! You’re not the patriarch of misery, alright. You need to own your fucking actions! And… just, take responsibility for them, Jesus! Why did you lie? Why did you say she kicked you out?!”

John just stared at him, squared-jaw and hands in tight fists. He looked angry, but Paul was so fuming himself that he barely registered it. And the lack of response was just aggravating.

“Was there even a fight? Or did you just wake up and decided to walk out on your wife and son?” He sighed deeply, disbelieving.

“Of course there was a fight,” John finally uttered, anger filtering clearly through his words.

“About what!?”

“About me going out, and stuff. And… I told her about the other girls.”

“Okay. And?” Paul pressed him, losing his patience.

“And she accepted it,” John blurted, as if the words hurt him for some reason. 

There was something so raw, so vulnerable in his tone that Paul froze, feeling like John was holding something back. Something big. Cynthia accepting it was supposed to be positive in the strict situation, they both knew it, and they both knew it absolutely was not. But that was not something they could explain. Not something they could _voice_.

Paul could not help his mind from wavering towards tenderness for a split second. But soon enough, raw indignation was back.

“So you just left?” He huffed out.

“No, I—“

“Look, you need to explain to me what your fucking logic is because I don’t see it right now,” Paul added, feeling desperate now.

John sighed deeply, rubbing his face with his hands so hard it had to be painful. 

“I don’t deserve her, okay?! She’s an angel, she’s… she’s a goddess, she fucking… worships the ground I walk on and I’m… I’m just… She loves this, being fucking stuck in that goddamn mansion with nothing to do all day long, and I don’t… I just don’t _fit_, and I just keep cocking things up and she still fucking loves me no matter what I do, it’s getting ridiculous, and I’m… I just don’t deserve it,” John let out, getting more and more emotional by the minute.

The silence that followed was only filled by his heavy breathing. Paul felt like he had lost the ability to breathe at some point. Seeing John so convinced that he was not worthy of love was more painful than he could bear.

“Love is not something you have to deserve,” Paul told him gently. “There’s no… deserving it. It just happens.”

“Well, even if that is true, she still should be with someone who truly loves her. Who loves her just as much as she does me, you know. She deserves someone who treats her… good. Who doesn’t cheat on her. And I’m not it.”

“It’s… I mean, I’m not saying cheating is alright, but those girls, they weren’t… you weren’t in love with them, were you? It’s different, isn’t it?”

“You can cheat on someone without it being physical,” John answered, still so fucking cryptic Paul was losing his mind.

“You’re in love with Cynthia. I know you are.”

But John did not answer right away, staring at him so intensely Paul was starting to feel light-headed. There was something in his eyes he could not decipher and yet, he could not have brought himself to look away if he had wanted to.

Then, ever so slowly, John shook his head.

“I don’t think I can be, anymore,” He whispered.

The two of them just stood face to face, letting the silence grow, until John visibly couldn’t bear it anymore.

“She wanted us to forget, to just move on like… like that’s gonna solve anything, you know? But I’m not, I… It was late, she wanted to go to bed and just, talk about it in the morning and I was going to, but… when I saw… I just. Couldn’t. She said if I didn’t want to solve things I should just leave, and I guess – I mean, I know she didn’t really mean it, but I… I couldn’t stay.”

John stopped talking, breathing with difficulty now, and all Paul could do was stare and feel like his soul was shattering into thousands of little sharp pieces.

“Why didn’t you just tell me that? I mean… I’m on your side. I’ve always been on your side,” Paul whispered, finally letting his hurt wash all over him. “Why did you lie to me?” 

John kept looking at his feet, slightly shaking and clearly upset. The silence stretched for so long Paul did not actually expect an answer anymore. He just tilted his head back, fighting the emotions threatening to flow over him with a sad smile.

“I didn’t want you to think bad of me,” The answer belatedly came, so quiet Paul nearly missed it.

He took time to understand the sentence, to let the words embrace their full meaning. It was such a sad statement he did not think he had the power to counter it. 

“I don’t,” He said, just as quiet. “I just wish you hadn’t lied about it.”

John stared at him, his eyes suspiciously shiny, then put his hands on his hips and looked down. Then, after a few moments, he nodded. It was not much but it still unleashed a wave of relief in Paul. For him, for now, it was enough.


	23. Chapter 23

It was their last concert in the UK and Paul was scared shitless.

After his and John’s emotional conversation of the previous night, Paul had forgotten to take his pills and thus had not closed his eyes the whole night. He was not even tired, in a way, nerves keeping him on the verge of frantic. But saying he was feeling good would be an outright lie.

They were only going to play five songs, it would not take long, but the prospect of facing a crowd again was oddly terrifying. It was unusual for him, to be that tense because of a gig; and he had actually lived two Beatles gigs already back in December. But things were different, back then. He had been so out of it that what was going on barely registered. Now, he was very much aware of what was happening and the amplitude of it. There was “I’m Down” on the setlist, and he hadn’t been able to _really_ sing that one for a long time. Not the way he wanted to, anyway. It was stupid, but he couldn’t help but be afraid that at any moment his voice would crack and sound old again. There was no reason for it to happen, but still. 

He was waiting backstage, all dressed up with his bass in hands, his boots on and his fringe perfectly combed, trying to keep his breathing regular. In front of him, in a nice raw, George, John and Ringo were patiently waiting as well, chuckling in-between them about the assistants running everywhere around them. For once, they were ready before they had to be on stage. One skinny crew member hurriedly approached them and signalled for the stairs to the stage. 

“You can go, it’s ready!” He told them, his wide frantic eyes showing his night was probably being worse than Paul’s.

“Thank you, little man,” John answered, readjusting his guitar strap on his shoulder. 

He looked just as tired as Paul felt, and that reassured him somewhat. He was interrupted in his staring by Ringo though, who glanced at him with a smile he struggled to answer to. Then, George started moving and the four of them were set in motion.  
Show time.

The most striking fact about the gig was how fast it had gone: one minute he was walking to his spot under the blinding lights and deafening screams of 10,000 people, the next he was screaming the last lyrics and bowing, his heart beating wildly in his chest and a grin plastered onto his face. A look to his left made him meet the gazes of his bandmates, all looking overheating but pumped on adrenaline. His voice hadn’t cracked. He was alright.

The good thing about the NME show was the after-party reserved to the artists and various guests of the organizers. The food was the type that came in too small versions to really recognize its taste, but alcohol was flowing freely and the music on the speakers was good enough to have most people swinging. It was a nice party and they sure were all enjoying it. Paul was tipsy. OK, maybe a bit more than tipsy. A bit drunk probably. But at least, contrarily to John, he wasn’t pissed – yet. He was still thinking more or less clearly. And pissed or not, there were a few things about John that evening that were… unsettling. 

It started when Neill, John and he were talking to some guy from the venue who said the owner of the theatre had invited a young ‘unknown’ American actor to the party to make him discover British music. When the actor turned out to be Robert Redford, Paul couldn’t help but chuckle ostentatiously in his drink.

“You know him?” Neill asked, curious. 

“Uh, yeah, I saw a movie with him I think,” Paul answered, hoping it was vague enough to go unquestioned. 

“What is he like?” John asked, looking around the room as if the actor would magically pop up in front of him.

“Oh, you’ll recognize him alright. He’s probably the best-looking man you’ve ever seen,” Paul snorted in his drink, looking out in the crowd.

He could feel John’s gaze linger on him, then saw him slowly raising his own glass to his lips.

“I doubt it,” He said right before taking another sip.

Paul turned his head so fast he heard his neck snap.  
He could not say what it was, but there was something about his tone that left him feeling… weird. As if it was not just an innocent remark – it couldn’t be, not with John. But his friend was observing the rest of the room too now, looking above all suspicions. Even if his eyes proved he was not in his right state of mind. Off to the side, Neil and the other lad looked like they had not heard anything and were still talking about the exotic guests that were present. 

A little later, Paul joined Brian and Ringo who were admiring the artists’ portraits that were hanging along the walls. They were laughing at the tiniest details, wondering if the photographer had intended for that weird couch pattern or that very obvious smudge to show in the pictures. There was one with a very explicit-looking plant that was making Paul and Ringo giggle like schoolboys while Brian tried to remain serious. When John arrived, swaying a little, he stopped very close to Paul.

“What you looking at?” He asked, smiling.

“Look, that plant looks like a penis,” Ringo announced very directly, which made Brian blush and laugh embarrassedly again.

John uselessly put a hand on Paul’s arm to lean closer, and Paul froze when he felt his breath caress his skin just above his turtleneck. Unable to stop himself, Paul turned to stare at him but John just kept looking at the portrait. Then, when John leant back, his fingers seemed to linger on Paul’s sleeve a little longer than necessary.

“That’s original,” John said, painfully casual. 

But when his eyes met Paul’s for the briefest of seconds, he could swear they were shining with something more than plain mischief. And then, just as fast as he’d arrived, he was gone again.

So, yeah. John was unsettling. Being drunk was one thing, but had he always been that… _weird_, when he was drunk? Or was it just that Paul used to be not sober enough to notice it? Maybe his patience for drunk/high people had just dwindled. He was feeling too out of it, too old to enjoy it with them and too young to have any excuse not to.

“You know Paul, the daughter of NME’s chief editor asked me earlier if it was true that you were single,” Brian suddenly said, bursting Paul out of his thoughts and making him choke on his margarita. “I didn’t say anything of course, but since you are, I thought you might want to know.”

Paul didn’t even have to think it over that bells rang a loud ‘NO’ in his head. He wouldn’t even try to find out why the idea was so off-putting at the moment, or why he was feeling so awkward about it.

“That’s nice, but I’m not interested in finding a girlfriend right now,” Paul confessed.

“Excuse him, it’s not his fault. He has _standards_ now,” George chided in with a smirk and an arm over Paul’s shoulders.

“Will you stop with that?” Paul exclaimed, pushing him off for show but straining to keep himself from laughing along.

Brian just laughed with them, being just tipsy enough for his cheeks to be pink. When he spotted a familiar face in the crowd, he winked at the boys and told them he’d see them later. The two friends just stayed in their corner, surveying the happy crowd, until suddenly George put his glass on the table next to them and engulfed Paul in a hug. Paul stiffened, patting him awkwardly on the back. When George let him go, he let out an embarrassed chuckle.

“What was that for?” He asked.

“You looked like you needed a hug,” George shrugged. “But don’t worry, I don’t think anyone’s noticed anything. You’re still as charming as ever.”

Paul looked at him for a while, his small face, his dark intelligent eyes, the new scar on his chin, and wondered how in the world he could have ever overlooked a friend like George. He felt himself smiling warmly.

“We should put our song on the album,” He declared, feeling excited about it all of a sudden. 

“Yeah?” George wondered, looking slightly surprised. 

“Yeah. It’s a good song. And ‘All Things Must Pass’ too.”

“Which one?” George frowned. 

Paul cursed at himself in his head, but didn’t let himself lose time to answer. 

“The one you were working on the other day, that you said was just notes. When you finish it, we should record it. It’s really good.”

After a moment of scrutinizing Paul’s face, certainly to see how much of this decision was due to alcohol, George smiled and gave him an ‘alright’ shrug. They stayed together pretty much for the rest of the evening, Pattie joining them and leaving them along the night. Paul thought it weird not to see George ditch him and find someone better or funnier to spend the evening with, but he realized after a while that that was his _own_ behaviour, not George’s; they had always been very different in that regard. It was humbling to finally comprehend that, to take the time to observe his friend and to notice what he was like. He had always gone to the easy conclusion that they were the same kids they were when they met, but older. However, that was terribly reductive. George was not only sharp, clever and funny, but he was also truly complex, genuine and empathic. And Paul was ashamed to have needed so many years to see that. 

It was also a relief to have George next to him that night, because he did not feel like talking to the rest of the guests. He felt angry with himself for not being as friendly as he was used to be, but he could not be arsed to actually make efforts. If people wanted to talk to him, they could still come and he would be perfectly charming. He was – he knew he was. It was natural for him, it didn’t represent real efforts. But he was tired, and nearly 60 years and the prospect of 50+ more years of professional PR life were starting to weigh on him a little. Especially when he was turning into the pathetic illustration of a sad drunk. 

After a few hours of drinking champagne and conversing with fellow musicians (they were all so young! This was all so wrong!), Paul decided to call it a night and just call a cab to get home. After all, he had a cat to feed, now. He said his goodbyes to George and Pattie, crossed path with Brian who told him Ringo had gone to the toilet and prepared to leave, searching over the crowd in the hopes of spotting a mop of auburn hair. Not able to see him anywhere, he sighed and went for the exit, shaking a few more hands and giving a few more enthusiastic smiles on the way. 

“Should I call a cab, sir?” A young valet came to him. 

“Yes, please. Thank you,” He nodded. 

He was searching for pounds in his pocket when a hand fell on his shoulder and made him turn around. Sure enough, it was John, red cheeks and breathless, who was looking at him with suspiciously blown pupils.

“You’re leaving already?” He asked.

“Yeah, it’s late,” Paul nodded.

They stared silently at each other, and John opened his mouth as though to say something when a cab pulled up right in front of them, startling them both. John then brutally dropped his hand, and Paul had not noticed he hadn’t yet. The valet came back to open the door for him and Paul slipped a few bills to him before turning back to John. Though when he crossed his expectant gaze, he found himself at a loss of words. 

“See you at home,” He finally settled on, his own voice sounding weirdly detached to his own ears.

John nodded, biting quite harshly on his lips. Paul sent him a small smile and got in the car.  
No matter how much his body ached to, he did not dare to turn around and watch behind him as the car drove away.

The next day was unusually packed for Paul, especially since thanks to his pills he woke up around noon. He had a radio thing with Ringo, which he did not really look forward to but at least he did not remember it one bit so that was a win. But he also had plans with Neill to go to a club at night, figuring the best way to cure his new-found social awkwardness was to bathe in people. After all, why not fight fire with fire? It had worked a couple times before. He was about to leave the apartment when he decided to check just quickly if John had at least come home the night before, since he had not heard him nor seen him since he’d woken up. To be sure that the man was alive and well and not puking his guts in a ditch – which was unlikely, but it wouldn’t have been the first time. Walking discreetly down the corridor, he stopped at his door and slightly pushed it open. 

It was all dark inside and the curtains were closed. Once his eyes adjusted, he spotted a form on the bed against the wall, all rolled up with apparently the head turned towards the wall. A few seconds of observation showed the form breathing calmly, with only one bare foot hanging out of the bed, which made Paul smile. A soft purring suddenly erupted as well, and another tinier form detached itself from the main one and jumped to come rubbing itself against Paul’s legs.

“Hey, there you were,” He murmured to her while scratching her ears. 

Thisbe responded with a soft ‘meow’ and went running down the corridor, the call of the kibbles winning her over. Paul threw a last glance at John and quietly closed the door.  
Now he could start his day. 

In the days that followed, Paul found every excuse possible to get out of the house and see people, so much that he barely spent any time with John. He didn’t know if John had found a house yet, and didn’t really want to. He didn’t want to think about his house being empty safe for Thisbe. He didn’t want to think about waking up and knowing that John wouldn’t be in the other room. He didn’t want to think about why it was so hard to go back to being alone again. Or why John had been acting so weird at the NME party only to be perfectly normal – well, even a bit cold – the days after. He especially didn’t want to think about that last part. So he did what he knew best: pushed it all away and ignored it. It worked – even if sleep was avoiding him again.

“What the…? You’re cheating!” Ringo practically screamed with a croaky voice when Paul slapped the cards right under his nose.

“No I’m not,” Paul giggled, leaning in front of him against the wall and struggling to keep his long legs from dangling all over the stairs.

They were playing Egyptian War on the stairs of the studio, looking like children hiding from their teacher and grasping a couple more minutes of recess. Which was basically what they were doing. They were tired and restless after already ten hours of work – not without breaks, of course, but still. The session was interminable. 

They were mixing and recording several songs which they did not manage to get just right, Ringo was sick, John was in a sour mood, and Brian was there, thus in the end everyone was irritated that things were going wrong on that very day. As for Paul, he was restless because he remembered that day being hard the first time around and now everything was happening the same way and it seemed just worse. So when George had suggested they found a quiet corner to play cards, he had jumped on the occasion.

“He’s not cheating, you’re just…” George piped in, sitting on the stair above them and his eyes fixated on the cards they pulled one after the other. Then, just when he slapped again: “Too slow.”

“Thank you!” Paul let out with a tiny bow.

The three of them kept putting down their cards until Paul and George slapped in unison, crushing each other’s fingers and sending the cards fly away under the blow, which only made them laugh and wince simultaneously. Paul bent over to pick up the fugitives.

“Damn how are you so fucking quick?!” Ringo wondered aloud, to which George only answered by ruffling his hair.

“What are you doing?” A voice rose, making all three of them look up to the newcomer.

John was looking at them with a visibly blank face, but Paul could detect the quiver in the corner of his lips, proving he was keeping himself either from laughing or from screaming.

“Playing,” George unhelpfully answered. “Wanna join?”

“No. Move your arses, we have work,” John retorted, finally meeting Paul’s eyes with a coldness that struck him in the face.

Screaming, then.

“Who pissed in your tea?” George snorted.

But John only huffed and left without another word. As George was gruffly gathering the cards and Ringo was caught in a coughing fit, Paul fought hard not to let out a deep sigh. He didn’t think John could get any colder with him, and yet… 

A few hours later, when everyone had finally gone home or out for a few last pints, Paul went back to the studio and settled down at the piano just to close his eyes and collect himself. It had been such a long and demanding day that his ears were still ringing in the silence. He liked it, the quiet. The smell of instruments, the light creaking of the stairs leading to the room. It was soothing him in a way few places could. He let his fingers run across the keys and started playing the melody of “Let It Be”. Whenever he felt sad or melancholy, he always ended up playing that one. As if his mother was always there, waiting in a corner of his mind, ready to come in and comfort him when he needed it. He started singing it softly at first, then louder. It was almost therapeutic for him, to remember the song, to let it fill his entire being. He remembered the times when they had recorded it, back in 1969, and made a silent wish for things to be different this time around. 

The song ended and Paul opened his eyes, realizing just then that he had closed them at some point. A noise behind him on the right made him turn and he locked gaze with Brian, jacket on and visibly ready to go, who looked a bit shaken up. Amazed. 

“Where does that come from? It’s beautiful,” He asked softly. 

This was all wrong. Nobody was supposed to hear it that early. And yet, seeing the gentle awe on Brian’s face, somehow, it felt… _right_.

“Nowhere, it’s… just…” He shrugged, his mind blank. “I dreamt of it.”

Brian nodded, looking still very much bewildered. 

“Well, you should definitely put it on the album,” He told him.

Paul smiled, touched by his manager’s candour. With a last nod and a smile, Brian went back up the stairs and disappeared through the door. Maybe, just maybe, he was not totally wrong.

It was a few days later, on a Friday morning, that John told Paul he was leaving.

They were in the car, driving to the studio under pouring rain for their last day of recording before a whole week off. It had been a rough morning, with the thunder waking both of them way too early and Thisbe vomiting all over the living-room carpet. Paul was already done with the day, and his running nose – probably inherited from Ringo – was only annoying him further. He was turning into Prince Albert Road when John announced it in a weirdly shy voice.

“I found a place. I can move in on Monday.” 

Paul’s hand tightened on the wheel on their own volition and a weight fell low in his stomach. He forced his features to relax into an agreeable expression, feeling John’s eyes glancing at him regularly.

“Oh, that’s. That’s fast.”

“Well, there’s no reason for me to linger, is there?” John joked feebly.

Paul felt his blood freeze, wondering how stupid it would be to answer anything. 

“I guess not,” He settled on, his throat so dry it hurt. 

John did not answer, and Paul did not know what to add to that. There was nothing to add, really.  
So silence followed them to the studio. 

On Saturday morning, Paul was awake at four and was completely unable to fall back asleep. So he fed Thisbe, left a note saying he was out to John, took his car and left for the whole day, driving deep into the country, walking so long his legs and lungs hurt, and coming back only when he was so exhausted he physically could not stand any longer. 

On Sunday morning, he lied awake for hours, staring at the ceiling and wondering at what point it would be considered too late for him to get out of his bedroom. He could hear John walking and living around the house, could even hear him talking gently to Thisbe. He was always so gentle with her. When Paul finally got out, John told him he had promised Cynthia he would spend the afternoon with Julian while she was seeing friends, and Paul felt awful to be relieved. Relieved from having to look at his friend and feel so far from him. From feeling like a fucking lunatic unable to handle his emotions.

On Sunday evening, John came back when Paul was preparing bologna, following the recipe Maureen had given him. Not that he was hungry – he barely remembered the feeling – but he figured that if he had something good to eat for the rest of the week, he wouldn’t let himself starve to death. John entered the kitchen and stood against the bare wall, hands behind his back and observing Paul’s movements. Paul did not dare turn around. He was not sure what his face looked like at the moment, but if it reflected his state of mind, it couldn’t be pretty.

“Do you think I’m shit now? As a musician?”

Paul stopped stirring the sauce and turned to John with a frown, wondering what could have possibly triggered that question.

“Why on Earth would I think that?”

“You’ve met a lot of talented people, I reckon. You’ve aged. I wouldn’t blame you if writing silly songs with me sounded boring to you now,” John shrugged, his casualness clearly counterfeited.

“That is without a doubt the furthest thing from the truth you could possibly say,” Paul asserted, turning back to his pot.

“So… I’m not shit?” 

Paul turned back around in a flash, sauce flying from his spatula. There were some things he simply _could not_ bear to hear.

“Of course not you’re not shit, you’re brilliant!” He nearly shouted, making John wince at the change in volume. Then, softer: “I told you that already, and I wasn’t lying. You’re a musical genius, Lennon. And I know it even more precisely _because_ I’ve met a lot of ‘talented people’.”

At that John lowered his head, suddenly bashful, and Paul spot some light pink on his cheeks. It was lovely. At the very least, it meant John believed him a little.

“Would you… would you want us to write something really new, then? Something you don’t remember at all…?” John asked suddenly, getting his back off then back against the wall, practically glaring at the tiled floor.

Paul turned off the stove and covered the saucepan. When he turned to John, slowly, he didn’t want to say yes. He was not in the mood, had not been for a while, really. But then he crossed light brown eyes. 

“Of course.”

So they sat face to face, one on a chair and one on the couch, both in pyjamas and with fuming cups of tea waiting on the coffee table. Paul felt like he was 15 again, except his mind suddenly reminded him he was now older than his father, his kids didn’t exist and John was dead. 

As soon as the invading thoughts flashed before his eyes, Paul closed them and breathed deeply, in and out. In, and out. It had been weeks now, but he couldn’t fall down that hole again. When he opened his eyes again, John was looking at him with a soft frown. He was so soft – how could people have forgotten how soft he was? How tender and caring? Nobody wrote that in the books. Or if they did, they didn’t shout it loud enough for the whole world to hear. 

It was then, looking at John’s soft face, that a melody came to him. Words tumbled around in his head, following a rhythm that was growing inside of him and threatening to boil over. A smile broke on his face and slowly, so slowly, he saw it mirrored on John’s.

“You have one, don’t you?” His friend whispered, as if the rest of the world was not worthy of it yet.

Paul nodded, still smiling, and started whistling a tune, accompanying with the few chords that now seemed obvious, natural. And just like that, it clicked, John looked at his mouth, at his fingers, and followed. He took Paul’s seed and covered it with leaves and ground, and love. They lost track of time, their teas grew cold, but their song was taking its first steps, tentative at first, then stronger. They laughed and tried different voices, whispered and disagreed before finding it. And not even an hour and a half later, it was there. A new Lennon-McCartney original.

When they went to bed, that night, Paul and John lingered in the corridor, each at his door, and struggled to say goodbye, giggling like schoolboys who stayed up past their bedtime. They both knew it then, Paul was sure of it. They had just done something great together. They had been great together. So Paul finally closed his door, got under the covers, and fell asleep faster than he’d had in months.

On Monday morning, when John knocked on his door, Paul stayed in his bed and pretended to sleep until he heard the front door click shut.  
And that was it.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)

Paul couldn’t talk about it. 

He wrote the _Revolver_ songs, helped writing them, and recorded them to perfection. He could sense John’s frustration sometimes, especially when Paul would sometimes wait for him to add something to one song as if he was ‘supposed’ to – which, to Paul, he was, in a way – but he did not complain once, not even about the fact that they had only truly 'written' one song, so Paul counted it as a win. Paul was being funny, smiling, available, arranging. He was helpful to everyone, kind to Thisbe, called his father regularly. He was the perfect friend, son, brother and colleague to everyone, and was pretty sure nobody knew how wrong his life felt – even more than before, if that was possible. But there was something wrong between John and him, and he couldn’t talk about it.

The good thing was, John apparently didn’t want to talk about it either. They talked – of course, they had to – but they didn’t say anything. Paul couldn’t quite comprehend how his life had come to this: one minute they were closer than ever, the next they were sending fake smiles to each other when there were witnesses in the room. He kept replaying the nearly eight weeks of John living in his apartment in his head, trying to find at what point exactly things had gone so wrong, and the only thing he could come up with was that he himself was the one to blame for being so weirdly anxious and possessive in the first place. John had lied, sure, but they had talked about it. He was acting weird, yeah, well, Paul probably was too. He was moving out? Good for him!

He had no reason to feel weird, was the thing. Nor embarrassed. John was his friend, they were still on good terms, and most importantly, he was alive and well. They just needed to bring back the fun between them and they were alright, really. And the fun would be back in no time; he just had to sit tight and smile. 

Tour arrived so quickly it felt like a joke. But for once since he had arrived, Paul welcomed it as a good distraction: he loved touring, even if the Beatlemania wasn’t exactly something he’d missed. It would be nice to be a real quatuor again, them against the world, even for a short while. In the studios, there were always other people in the middle. Tour was different – it was just them, and the public. And seeing Ruth so thrilled at the prospect of keeping the cat for a little less than three weeks was a nice plus.

As they arrived to their first hotel in Germany, though, Paul remembered how pairings went when they were on tour. It was always the same, and nobody would question that, _a priori_. Except he didn’t feel like sharing a room with John as long as he felt so stuck-up around him. So when Mal and Neil started unloading the luggage and they were all getting out of the cars, Paul thought he might as well ask now.

“Can I be with Ringo?” Paul suddenly asked loudly. 

Everyone turned to him with surprised faces, but Paul refused to look at any of them. Especially not at John.

“Just, you know, for a change?” He specified.

“You were with me last time already,” George drawled with an arched eyebrow.

“For another change,” Paul glared at him.

Ringo looked a bit confused too, but he nodded anyway.

“Yeah sure, man.”

“Alright then!” Mal said before entering the building, Neil, Brian and George behind him, two security guards surveying them from a short distance. Ringo patted Paul’s back and entered too when another voice rose.

“Are you serious?”

Paul turned to John, who was frowning at him still next to the van, a cigarette threatening to fall from his parted lips. Feeling hurt at the hurt in his eyes, Paul only shrugged in what he hoped looked casual and gave him a smile that he hoped looked carefree.

“It’s just for a few nights. I haven’t shared with Rings in a while,” He explained. “We can share again later if you want.”

But John only stared at him, clearly not convinced and even a bit offended by that poor excuse. 

“Come on, man. It’s nothing,” Paul laughed. 

And despite his instincts telling him not to, he went inside. 

The first concert went so well Paul was ecstatic, feeling younger than he’d had in literal decades. He’d had so many doubts about the band and his future in it – he had even, during countless sleepless nights, pictured the band going on without him, replacing him with some other bassist maybe – that he had ended up sort of expecting things to go horribly anyway. And seeing how far from the truth that was only added to the joy of performing and being so young again. Adrenaline was flowing in his veins and he had not been that carefree in a good while. 

But of course, it couldn’t last. They were in Essen, relaxing before the show in the common lounge room. Paul was vaguely studying a German newspaper spread on the coffee table, Ringo, Brian and Mal were discussing at the table, George was idly playing guitar on the couch and John was reading in an armchair, sitting upside down with his feet against the wall. As it was quite early, they still had time and were not even dressed for the show yet.

The phone rang and Mal, who was the closest, lazily picked it up before turning to George.

“It’s Pattie.”

“Oh, cheers,” George smiled, putting down his guitar and taking the phone from him. “Hi love!”

Paul turned back to his newspaper, vaguely listening to the lads’ conversation next to him, until he realized George had turned eerily silent. Glancing towards him, he saw his friend bent over the phone, hiding his face from them. Not the kind of conversation he wanted them to hear then – that was fair. Privacy was a luxury on tour. But when George hung up and fierily rushed across the room, Paul and the others looked up.

“What is it?” John asked from his chair, still upside down.

“George?” Brian supplemented, sounding worried.

“I need to go home,” George said in a weird voice before getting out of the room.

There were two seconds of still confusion in the room, and suddenly they all unfroze at the same moment. Paul was one of the fastest, rushing out after his friend with Brian on his tail. George was heading straight to his room, fumbling with the key to open the door. When Paul ran to join him, he noticed his hands were shaking so badly he couldn’t do it. Paul stopped him by putting his own hand over his.

“George, what’s going on?” He asked gently, taking the key from his hands to open the door.

George let him do it as Brian was joining them as well. Once the door was opened, Paul glanced at his friend and was shocked by how pale he was.

“It’s Pattie. There’s something wrong with the baby, she… I have to go!” He started with a trembling voice.

The three of them entered the room and George rushed straight to his suitcase, getting his wallet and jacket out. Brian, always level-headed in situations of crisis, stayed in front of the door, as if he was scared George would just run away if he blinked. Which seemed to be pretty much George’s plan.

“George, calm down. Is she at the hospital?”

George was frenetically searching for something else, and Paul was starting to feel dread settling in his own stomach. Not Pattie, not them…

“Yeah, they brought her, she was bleeding, she, uh. They don’t know what happened, yet, she might… she might—“

As he was talking, he hadn’t noticed Brian coming slowly up to him and laying a gentle and soothing hand on his arm.

“George. Listen to me. You talked to her directly, right? So she’s alright for now, they wouldn’t have let her call you otherwise. Right?”

George looked at him with wide scared eyes and panting like he had just run a marathon. Whether it was a mirroring reflex or because he was processing Brian’s words, he was nodding too. Paul was standing next to them, not knowing what to do to help.

“We’ll stay a little longer in London on Monday, I’ll change the flights—“

“What?! That’s in two days!” George protested, frantic again and setting his arm free from Brian’s hold. “I need to go now!”

“Come on, you can’t go now. We have a show in two hours,” Brian answered, still as calm.

“Are you joking? I’m not going to bloody play, she’s my wife!”

“I know, George, I know. Just calm down. You’ll be with her in less than two days. I know it’s not ideal but you just can’t go now, I’m sorry.”

George was now looking all around the room with such a lost expression Paul’s heart shattered at the sight. He came closer to his friend and sat on the bed next to him, trying not to make him feel cornered.

“Is someone with her? At the hospital?” Paul asked gently.

George quickly turned to him and caught Paul’s gaze. He still had his wallet in his hands and Paul nearly startled at the raw fear in his eyes.

“Uh—yeah, yeah her mum’s with her,” He nodded.

“That’s good, that’s good, she’s not alone,” Paul smiled encouragingly.

“Yeah, but…” George said, then turned to Brian again. “I need to go, Brian, I can’t play, I… I’m sorry but I won’t, I need to be with her!”

Brian shook his head, pain, regret and determination clear on his face. He wouldn’t budge, and Paul understood it as much as he knew he couldn’t let it happen. This was George’s life, his wife, his kid – Paul understood his pain so much it was hurtful to watch it all unfold.

“I won’t play either,” He suddenly blurted out, not quite knowing when exactly he had made that decision. “If George won’t, I won’t. I mean it.”

Both men looked at him, shocked. The old Paul never would have done that. _Old_ Paul did, though.

“John and Richie will say the same,” He added with more confidence in his voice – even if he actually had no idea about that, but might as well go all the way. “He needs to go, Brian.”

George sharply turned his head to Brian, hope blossoming on his face. Brian looked at them both with his hands on his hips, thinking hard as he was harshly worrying his lips. Then, after what felt like eternity, he nodded.

“Okay. Okay, I’ll cancel tonight,” He relented with a frown. “But I need you back for tomorrow George, I’m serious—“ 

He didn’t have the time to finish his sentence that George was rushing to him, planting relieved kisses on both his cheeks.

“Thank you, thank you, I…” He let Brian go and started looking around the room again. “Where’s my-“

Paul extended his jacket to him and George took it gladly. 

“Okay, come with me, we need to call Alistair,” Brian started again, going for the door.

George went after him and was about to leave the room when he stopped and ran back towards Paul, who was still standing near the bed. George tackled him in the strongest hug he had received in years, his bones nearly cracking. Paul hugged him back just as tight.

“Go to her,” Paul whispered in his friend’s hair.

George leant back to look at him, and the relief and gratitude on his face were so obvious that he didn’t need to say a word. He nodded at Paul with a smile and left, running after Brian. 

True to his word, Brian cancelled the show and booked a flight for George, Mal going with him just in case. They all spent the night at the hotel, worrying about Pattie and fidgeting in their seats. When George finally called them, around two in the morning, he brought both scary and reassuring news: Pattie had suffered from a mild placental abruption, which was serious, but she had been taken in charge quickly enough to minimize the damage. The baby was fine, even if she would need to stay bed-ridden and under surveillance for the two months left of her pregnancy. Brian, who had taken the call, was white as a sheet for the rest of the evening. 

The day after, an hour only before the next show, George came back among them. He was beyond exhausted, having not slept in two days, and Paul felt distressed for him. This was not a life; jumping into a plane, leaving your suffering partner behind, paste on a smile and go on with the show. It made him ache for his older days and for the simpler, quieter life he had managed to find along the years. When he went to bed that night, Ringo snoring softly in the room, he wished George would be able to find something similar in this life too.

To celebrate their last show in Tokyo, they all decided to throw a little party in one secluded part of the hotel lobby. It was not much by any means, but they had enough alcohol, food and music to have a good time and relax for a last time all together before their break.

Feeling a bit melancholy and with his head about ready to burst from all the noise, Paul decided to go wander through the hotel halls, olives in hand, and enjoy a bit of quiet. He was sloshed, just enough to feel warm and content and not to dive too deep into all the distressing thoughts lurking at the edge of his mind. Not tonight. He was just about to leave the lobby when he spotted John talking animatedly with two Japanese, a man and a woman, cosily leaning against the wall while the other two drank his words. Especially the woman, who was barely caressing his arm when she laughed in the most cliché way possible. And that made Paul freeze.

Perhaps it was because it reminded him of Yoko and by consequence of some unpleasant memories, but seeing John with that woman sent a sharp, acidic burn to his stomach. As if it was revolting, outrageous somehow. Without really controlling it, Paul found himself heading in their direction with a stiffness in his step that was coming out of nowhere.

“Having fun?” He asked John, sending a cold smile to the woman and simply ignoring the man. 

_What the hell are you doing?_ He thought to himself even though it was now too late to back off. He was being a controlling and nosy lunatic, he was conscious of it, but he couldn’t help it. The burn was too strong. When John turned, Paul could see his eyes were hooded – definitely a bit high. And probably drunk too, seeing how warm his smile was after weeks of coolness between them (except for that one precious evening before he moved out that Paul kept close to his heart, a little bubble of happiness).

“Hey Paulie! I was thinking about you,” He told him. 

“Yes, we were talking about tonight, you were very good, great performance,” The woman added with a probably friendly smile, but Paul couldn’t care less.

“Nice, cheers,” He blankly answered. Then he turned fully towards John. “Fancy a fag, John, love?”

The pet name was probably a bit out of place, and John did look confused for a second, but thankfully he did not question it and simply nodded, bidding farewell to his companions. He silently followed Paul into the corridor, noticing after a while that they were only moving further into the building.

“Err, Paulie? The exit’s this way,” He let out hesitantly, pointing at another double door.

“I don’t smoke,” Paul replied, not stopping his walk.

“Ooookay…”

The confusion in his voice asked for clarifications, but Paul wasn’t in the mood. They passed a hotel employee pushing a cart full with bottles and Paul nicked one discreetly. He might need it. He continued down the hall until he found what seemed to be another reception room that was empty. He got in, hearing John’s footsteps behind him, and dropped himself into the couch, closing his eyes and clutching the bottle. He felt the couch dipping when John sat next to him.

“You look spent,” John chuckled.

Paul passed a hand over his tired eyes, smiling too.

“I am, actually.”

“What makes you so tired?” John asked good-naturedly, prying the bottle from Paul’s hand to open it.

Paul did not know what he would answer until the words actually came out of his mouth.

“Not talking to you. It’s pretty exhausting.”

John froze in his movements, sending him a cautious glance, before finishing to uncork the bottle and taking a first gulp. He passed the bottle to Paul, and it was only when Paul started drinking too that he answered.

“Usually it’s the opposite. People get tired of talking to me,” He said in a carefully levelled voice. 

Paul did not know what he was hoping from this conversation – he had stopped expecting and planning things a long time ago – but he was happy to have been drinking enough not to let his thoughts overwhelm him. Screw worry.

“That’s not true,” Paul simply stated.

He gave John the bottle again, and silence stretched over them. It was not exactly peaceful, but it was comfortable enough that Paul felt like he could actually ask what was on his mind.

“Have you heard from Cynthia? Since you went to see Julian?”

John sighed and sank more deeply into the couch.

“Not really. I mean, I called to talk to Jules, but we didn’t, you know, discuss or anything.”

Paul nodded, understanding what he meant. He thought John had dropped the subject when his voice rose again.

“I think she thinks it’s just a whim.”

“Is it?” Paul asked, unable to stop himself.

John levelled him with an unreadable look before slightly shaking his head.

“No,” He simply replied.

Paul slightly moved his head to see his face a bit better.

“Do you still love her?” He asked, genuinely wondering.

John stayed silent for a while, visibly deep in thought. He took so long to answer Paul had started to think he never would.

“I really care about her,” he finally said. “And I’ve loved her. Some part of me always will. But it’s not true love. There’s something missing, like, some connection. I think it’s all about connection, you know.”

Paul hummed to show he was listening. John seemed to gladly take the encouragement.

“When you’re really close to someone, it creates something rare, something precious. You are part of the other person. You can really see them, think through them. It’s that kind of connection that people are after. Some call it admiration, or some would call it infatuation or friendship or whatever but it’s just love, you know? In its purest form.”

Something ticked in Paul’s mind as the familiar words washed through him. When he looked at John, his friend was already looking at him. And suddenly, it all became clear: He remembered having that conversation more than 50 years ago. He remembered it too well. 

He had been thinking about it for years, wondering what he should have understood, how he should have reacted. If it was as meaningful as it had felt or if his memory had just romanticized it.

“I don’t think a love like that obeys to any rules,” John went on, unaware of Paul’s agitation. “It’s not something that humans have created, not like a societal thing. It’s deeper than that, and that’s what some people are afraid of I guess, because they can’t control it. Whatever laws they create, they can never control it. A white lad will fall in love with a black girl.” He paused. “A lad with another lad. You know.”

Whether it was muscle memory or he was really thinking it, Paul couldn’t stop the idea popping in his head that no – he wasn’t _supposed_ to know. Hell, he was not even sure he wanted to. But he was completely frozen in place, his tongue feeling like cement in his mouth. John finally turned his eyes away and Paul felt like he could breathe again but he knew he wouldn’t stop there. God, did he know.

“And I think… I think you can’t really find that connection everywhere. Like it doesn’t happen all the time, it’s not in every relationship,” He continued, looking at his own hands.

Words were pouring out of his mouth as if he couldn’t control them either. As if they’d been waiting to get out for years and now that they were able to, John was powerless against them. His voice had started quivering but he bravely pushed on.

“It’s like… It’s like you and me, you know?”

Time was frozen, Paul was sure of it. He wanted to throw up but he could not detach his eyes from John’s, even if he wasn't looking at him anymore.

“It’s not… it can just click with someone out of the blue, whether you’re supposed to connect with them or not. It can develop in lots of ways and it doesn’t always get physical but when it’s that deep, somewhere it’s… it’s…”

Paul closed his eyes, the déjà-vu making him a little sick. Once again, this conversation was way too deep for his drunk mind. He couldn’t talk about it now, he couldn’t even think straight…

“John…” He feebly started, not really knowing if he wanted him to stop talking or to say more.

That seemed to give John the courage to finish his thought with a fiercer tone, looking up to Paul again, eyes flickering over his whole face.

“It’s just true love, you know? Whether it’s allowed or not. It’s just true, real love. Do you know what I mean?”

Paul finally opened his eyes to find John staring at him with an intensity in his eyes he hadn’t seen in nearly 50 years. Since the first time they had had that conversation, astonishing him even more when he realized just how brilliant and modern and progressive John really was. The first time had been in India, in 1968. A different time, a different place, a different John and Paul, but the words were so similar that it gave the whole moment an eerie atmosphere. Not all of them were the same of course, but enough for it not to be a coincidence.

Paul had reacted the worst way possible, then: he had laughed. Said that no, he didn’t see what he meant, that John had probably just smoked too much – they both had, at the time. John had never ever broached the subject again and things had never been quite the same between them after that. Paul still regretted it. Not that he had understood what he meant and had just lied about it. He had not even tried to understand it. But he had been so… ungraceful. Disregarding. For years afterwards, he had completely forgotten that conversation, and when it had finally come back to the front of his mind decades later, he thought he had just dreamt it. That he just needed to blame it on the pot and it would remain buried again, this time forever. And now here it was, blowing up in his face again. 

Except this time, it was clearer, wasn’t it? It was. He might not have been able to voice it, or even think it, but he knew it was. 

As time passed and John kept staring at him, Paul knew he needed to be very careful with his answer. _Be honest. Just be honest_, an inner voice told him. But what did that even mean?! Why were his thoughts and feelings so hard to grasp? Going against his every instinct, he allowed himself to dive into John’s eyes. He could read a hundred emotions in them: seriousness, fear, trust, curiosity, anger, playfulness. But there was also something terrifying for Paul. 

Hope.

He cleared his throat. _Be honest_. Words came to him on their own volition.

“I think… I think I might.”

John kept looking at him for a while, before the hint of a cautious smile slowly appeared on his lips. He opened his mouth to answer when the door suddenly opened next to them and Ringo appeared out of nowhere.

“Oh, there you are! There’s almost no punch left but I saved you lads a last glass. It’s the best ever, honest to God,” he said while coming closer, said glasses in hand. “Who knew the Japanese could master every alcohol.”

He handed them the glasses, and John and Paul stood up to take them, practically by instinct. He was probably way too drunk already, but it was the distraction his hands needed at the moment. The punch left a welcome sweet trace in his throat.

“That is indeed some very good punch,” John said with a hoarse voice, as if he hadn’t talked in years.

“Come over then! Before Neil drinks all that’s left of it.”

Ringo went for the door, John following suit. He stopped at the threshold and turned to Paul, arching an eyebrow. His eyes shined brighter than everything else.

“Coming, Macca dear?”

Paul finished his glass in one go and got up. Fear was pulsing in his veins, but something else too. Something else.

“Yeah. Yeah I’m coming.”

A bit later, Paul was lying on his bed, still clothed and staring at the ceiling. He had left the party soon after joining the others in the lobby, claiming he had a headache and needed to lay down. Which wasn’t far from the truth.

He was losing his mind.

It was the only explanation possible. He was so scared of losing his loved ones again that now that he had retrieved his relationship with John, everything felt like a threat to it. Not seeing him, not talking to him, not hearing him joke around and groan and snore and whinge. Not making him smile, or snort, or cry from laughter. Not letting him steal his clothes or complain it’s too cold or too hot all the time. Everything he was not doing was lost, and his mind couldn’t take it. As if his sub-consciousness was trying, in some twisted way, to make up for lost time. To not only find their friendship back, but to make it ten times more intense. 

He kept replaying their last conversation in his mind, as if it was stuck on a perpetual loop. John’s hopeful eyes, his smile when Paul had said he understood it. Had he really meant that? Did he really understand what John was hinting at? Was it…? He couldn’t even form the idea in his head. He had spent so much time convincing himself that that conversation had just been a weird drunken exchange that had been exaggerated by his dreams, and now, he was forced to admit that it was not. It couldn’t be. Not with the way John had looked at him.

But John wasn’t…? Was he? Himself wasn’t, at least. That was for sure. Coming back to the past was messing with his head in so many ways he wouldn’t be surprised if his confusion was only the result of it. But then, why was everything so hard between them, for nothing? There definitely was something wrong that they needed to sort out. It was not what John seemed to be suggesting – or was he, really? –, it couldn’t be, but there was something. That much was certain. And they needed to talk about it before it became too… big. Or scary. Whatever it was, Paul was too old for it.

Suddenly pushing himself off of the bed, he got his key back on the table and went for the door. Once in the corridor, he hesitated a second, wondering if he should go back to the lobby or if he should try John and George’s room first. A glance at his watch told him it was already 1:26, so the party was definitely still going, but he figured he might try the room first. It was on the way, after all. When he arrived in front of the door, he stopped for a second, forcing himself to breathe deeply. Why was he so fucking nervous? It was just John. And he was probably still in the lobby anyway. He raised his hand to knock, two sharp times. No answer came and he was about to turn around when noise rose on the other side.

The door opened to reveal John, already wearing his pyjama pants with his shirt half undone, showing bits of pale skin. For some reason, that caught Paul by surprise and he felt suddenly so shy and flustered that he dropped his gaze to his own hands.

“Hey! I was, uh…” he started, looking everywhere but at John. “I was just thinking that we could, um… if you’re not sleepy, like hang for a bit or something and just, talk, you know…”

He finally dared to watch John, who was just waiting silently, lips slightly parted, one hand still on a button of his shirt. The expression on his face was unreadable but Paul could still feel his confusion. Hell, even he was confused. What did he even want to talk about, exactly? He suddenly felt so ridiculous he blushed violently.

“But if you’re going to bed, it’s fine,” He awkwardly added. “I’ll just. Yeah, I’ll just go--“

Paul started to turn around when a hand grabbed his wrist.

“Wait!” John said in a hurried whisper.

He pulled Paul inside the room and soundly closed the door behind him, never letting Paul’s wrist go.  
Paul could feel his hand burning him through his shirt. John’s fingers were twitching, a clear sign of nervousness. The surprise of having John nervous gave him the courage to look up, where John was already staring at him and wetting his trembling lips. His gaze was so intense Paul could not look away if he tried.

“I just…” Paul started, not knowing what he was trying to say. 

But he didn’t have to think any further, chapped lips on his short-circuiting his brain.

The contact could not have lasted more than two seconds but Paul was completely transfixed. He opened his eyes – he hadn’t even noticed he had closed them – only to see the utterly terrified expression on John’s face, just a foot from his. Which made his heart ache more than he thought it ever could.

Paul instinctively raised his hand to gently caress John’s cheekbone, as if the gesture could erase any bad thoughts in his friend’s mind, but John just kept staring at him, the fear still very much present in his eyes, his lips parted. His chapped but gentle, _so_ gentle lips. It had been so easy. So terrifyingly easy. Maybe… was it? Maybe he could actually _do_ this.

So without thinking any further, Paul leant forwards and kissed John. 

John stumbled backwards but Paul’s hands went immediately to his neck to stabilize him, the feeling being way too good to let go of. When John started kissing him back, a warmth enveloped Paul’s whole being, his mind screaming at him _'This is real! This is happening!'_. His chin brushed John’s and he could feel his stubble, which definitely felt weird, prickly. And John didn’t exactly smell good: cold ash, a trace of whisky, sweat. And their noses were bumping awkwardly in their haste to touch the other, to smell, to taste. But somehow, _somehow_, John’s lips melting against his was the best feeling he’d felt in years. Paul had no idea where this was coming from and at the same time, it felt so logic, so natural that he cursed himself for not having seen it coming. It was as if a fucking bomb was exploding out of him, or out of John, and meeting somewhere between them. 

He lost track of what was going on for a minute, his body turning to mush when John tilted his head, bit Paul’s lower lip and let an involuntary moan when Paul opened his mouth. They had to have moved backwards at some point because suddenly Paul felt the hard knob of the door against his back and winced audibly. John pulled back immediately, his eyes frenetically searching Paul’s.

“What? What is it?” He asked in a whisper, his voice both softer and more anxious than ever.

Paul moved aside, noticing for the first time that John’s hands were actually holding his face too.  
He showed him the doorknob with a little embarrassed smile. When he realized what that meant, John chuckled slightly and leant back a little, refusing now to meet Paul’s eyes.

“Sorry… Got a little carried away,” he said with a self-deprecating grimace.

His insecurity was so clear in his voice that Paul was overwhelmed with the desire to reassure him. 

“Me too,” he rushed to answer, not sure if his voice had actually come out loud enough to be heard.

John looked up, still a bit uneasy. His cheeks were flustered, his lips were red, and his eyes were so bright Paul felt literally blinded. Not really knowing what to do, and dreadfully aware of his own awkwardness, he tried to smile but he was not sure he had actually pulled it out. John answered with a tiny frown of his own, proof that the smile probably hadn’t worked that well, and Paul could see his brains working at full speed behind his eyes. John cleared his throat and took a step back, letting his hands fall from Paul’s face. Paul immediately felt cold without them.

“We should, um… I should go to bed.” He said, clearly avoiding Paul’s gaze. “George will arrive soon. Got to wake up early tomorrow and all.” 

“Oh. Uh… Yeah, I… I guess you should, yeah. Me too. I’ll just…” Paul stammered, feeling suddenly terribly embarrassed.

_No no no no_, Paul screamed at himself in his head. _Do not let this become weird, do not let this become weird!_ But his body seemed to have an opinion of his own, his arms crossing by themselves over his chest. He un-crossed them as soon as he realized what he was doing, but John’s eyes had already tracked his movements. He took another step backwards and Paul wanted to actually cry a little at how embarrassing it all was.

“Good night. Then,” John said coolly, not really looking Paul in the eyes.

Taking it as his cue to leave, and not really willing to let whatever this awkwardness was drag any longer than necessary, Paul stiffly nodded and retreated back out of the room.

Once he was out, he stayed a long time frozen in the empty corridor.  
The only sound the wild beating of his own heart.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I have a couple of things to tell you. 
> 
> First of all, a giant THANK YOU to all of you. I can't believe the reception of the last chapter, you are all amazing and got me teary-eyed :')
> 
> Second, I added an important tag. It's not completely relevant but I'd rather be cautious, in case. 
> 
> Third, I'm really, really nervous about this new chapter, and I really hope it won't disappoint you too much because it might not go as some (a lot, probably) of you expect or hope for.  
I hope you won't lose interest in the story from now on... Personnally, I get really addicted to the pining part and once the characters have finally kissed for the first time, I often lose interest a bit, so I hope you are not like me :(
> 
> And finally, it was a bit vague in my head up to now, but now I know the ending of the story, and it's going to have at the very, very least 18 more chapters! I really hope this won't scare you. And i might not update this often all the time, it just happens that I have a lot of free time now but, anyway.
> 
> Endless love to all of you!!!

After staring for God knows how long at John’s door, Paul ended up walking back to his room, letting his feet guide him. He was on automatic, and did not quite comprehend what he was doing until he was suddenly in his pyjamas in his bed and once again staring at the ceiling. That seemed to be all he was good at, staring.

He had kissed John. His watch on the bedside table told him it was now 2:07. He needed to sleep. They had a plane early in the morning to go to the Philippines. He was already horribly anxious about that specific destination, so if he was dead on his feet the whole time, it would only be worse. Perhaps he should try to talk to Brian again, try to make him understand how bad things could get over there. Jesus, they had _kissed_. But Brian would never believe him. He had no reason to, really. Paul had tried so hard not to think about Manila in order not to panic and was so caught in his head about his other problems that now that the trip was imminent, he was angry with himself for not having done more to avoid it. Manila had been traumatizing, for all of them. Somehow, knowing it would inevitably happen only made it seem like a horrifying event, probably worse in his mind than it actually had been the first time around. He could not live that again – they could not.. And why _the fucking hell_ had he kissed John?!

Panic was slowly growing in him, and his drunken mind kept him from tuning it down.

He rubbed his face with his hands, trying to clear his head from the whirlwind of confused thoughts. He needed sleep, but the pills were of no effect so far. He had probably developed some tolerance, since he had been taken them for a few months already. His body was all heavy and slow but his mind was still reeling. He really needed to sleep. 

Getting up as quietly as he could, he went to the bathroom, closed the door and turned on the light. A quick glance to the mirror confirmed that he looked terrible: there were dark circles under his wide eyes, his face was red from having been rubbed so hard and his hair was a mess. He searched into his toilet bag, took the tab of sleeping pills and froze to contemplate it, hesitating. The doctor had said no more than two, but he had a healthy young body, and his past had proved that he could handle a lot. He knew it was serious, that overdosing on that kind of medicine was not rare. The memory of Brian’s death burned his eyes. Was it the same medicine he was taking, then…? He wasn’t sure. If only he could check on his damn phone! He had to be careful, he knew it. But his brain seemed to be on fire, harassed with anxiety, and he couldn’t get a rest. At least, if he slept, he wouldn’t be stuck with his thoughts and he could begin the new day with some energy. 

Not thinking about it any further, he took another pill and popped it in his mouth, washing it down with water from the tap. He didn’t want to think. He turned off the lights and padded to his bed, tucking himself under the sheets. After a few minutes of tossing and turning to find the best position, his eyes started feeling too heavy already. No more thinking. 

The last thought that crossed his mind before falling asleep was the image John’s terrified face and the soft feeling of his lips.

The first two things that came to him when his consciousness awoke slowly was that his eyes were still heavy and his mouth felt pasty. His head felt a bit heavy as well, but not in a totally unpleasant way – more like he had overslept. He fought to open his eyes and was surprised by a bright artificial light attacking them, which caused him to groan. 

“Paul?” A voice rose next to him.

Paul turned his head to it with difficulty and squinted at the person. It was Brian, sitting on a chair and looking pale as a ghost. What was he doing here, watching him sleep…?

“Paul, can you hear me?”

He wanted to answer but his mouth was so dry that all that came out was a strangled noise. He swallowed and thankfully Brian understood and poured him a glass from a jug of water placed on the nightstand. Paul watched him do it and suddenly realized something: he wasn’t in his hotel room. 

He was in a hospital. 

Before he had time to react, Brian gave him the glass and Paul drank it automatically, closing his eyes a second. But when he reopened them, nothing had changed. He was wearing a hospital gown and there was a catheter in his hand when he raised it. 

“Wh- why am I here?” He croaked out, hearing himself speak slower than usual.

Brian pursed his lips and fidgeted with the jug before turning serious but still worried eyes to Paul.

“We couldn’t wake you up. They think you overdosed,” He explained calmly. 

The words swam in Paul’s head, meaningless. What? He what? But… he hadn’t…? The memories of the night before were a bit hazy. He always just took two pills, why would he overdose? Why would he take more? He felt too sluggish to remember more but curiosity still won.

“How long?”

“It’s almost nine in the afternoon. Richard said when he came back at 2:15 you were already asleep,” Brian answered. Then, understanding Paul was too out of it to connect the dots: “You’ve slept for more than 18 hours.” 

Paul gaped at him, feeling more and more awake now. Brian studied his face for a moment, seemingly searching for something. Whether he had found it or not, he sighed deeply and turned his eyes to the jug once again.

“I’m sorry, I know I’m pushing all of you too hard. But I really wish you’d talked about it with me,” He said quietly.

“Brian, no,” Paul rushed to answer, wanting to pat his hand but finding his arm was still too slow to react properly, missing his target on the first try. “I’m not… I’m alright, you know. I guess I took one too many pills but I didn’t mean to, like… you know. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay Paul, you could have died,” Brian countered with a stern frown.

At that Paul stayed silent, knowing he was right. The weight of it fell on his stomach, making him feel a little sick. And the irony of Brian telling him this was so cruel he sort of felt like crying. His memory was starting to clear up and he could see himself hesitating in front of the tablet. He remembered flashes of people talking to him, some shaking him, and being not able to respond to them. Once again, he seemed to have made the wrong choice. He could have died. What kind of idiot lived healthily to 77 years old (well, 78 now probably, since he had just celebrated his 24th birthday) only to die from an overdose back in his 20s? The very concept was absurd, all of it.

“I’m calling the nurse. And I’ll tell the others you’re alright,” Brian said, getting up from his chair. “Don’t fall back asleep, please.”

“I won’t,” Paul smiled feebly.

Now alone in his room, Paul had no buffer to keep his thoughts from crashing back into him. As the memories of the night before became clearer and clearer, one specific event burned brighter than any of them. Two gentle hands on his face, the warmth of a body against his, his fingers catching on short hair. Hot breath on his lips. 

Jesus bloody Christ. 

When he closed his eyes, it felt like he was almost back in that hotel room, snogging his best friend. How the hell was he supposed to look him in the eye now? Would John even remember it? He’d been drinking, too. Logic told him that if Paul remembered, John had to too, but… would he regret it? A flash of hurt crossed him at the thought. He didn’t know how he felt about having done… _that_… but he knew that he didn’t want John to regret it. It had felt quite good, hadn’t it? Probably because Paul hadn’t had any sensual physical contact in months, but still. And they still needed to have that talk, so they needed to face things as they were. People experimented, right? It wasn’t _that_ weird. He’d felt alone, confused, scared to lose John. Drunk, too, which was important. It was not that outlandish that he had reacted that way. It was not like he was actually gay or anything, it was nothing like that. He didn’t want to have sex with John, the very thought was making him shiver in fear. He had not _planned_ it. It had just… happened.

And John had kissed him first, after all. He had an idea of why, their earlier conversation popping in his memory, but. But. He’d never… Well, saying he had _never_ thought John would do something like that was a lie, but he had never _concretely_ thought he would _actually_ do it. Maybe it was just a matter of connection, of not knowing how to express it. They sure had a problem at communicating. 

He was still exploring that lead in his head when a doctor and two nurses came in, checking up that everything was alright. They asked him a lot of questions, verifying what he remembered, if he was coherent and alert. When he apparently passed their tests, they explained to him that the level of Barbiturate in his blood was definitely too high, but not enough to have brought him to an actual overdose, even though he’d come very close to it. His body had been profoundly asleep to the point of being barely responsive and he had been dehydrated, but he shouldn’t have any lasting secondary effect. They wanted to keep him for the night though, lectured him about the dangers of self-medication and told him they would prescribe him safer, even if less strong, medication for his sleeping problems. They didn’t insist on the drinking-alcohol-when-on medication part, but he guessed he actually knew more than them about that, and promised himself to stop drinking as long as he would take it.

All in all, Paul was very lucky and he silently thanked whoever was watching over him not to have let him ruin everything with something so reckless. 

Even if he hadn’t thought it would be possible, Paul still slept the following night – for a normal amount of hours, this time. In the late morning, after the doctor’s visit, Mal, and Alf, the driver came to pick him up at the back entrance of the hospital, which felt like a déjà-vu from his first night in Cardiff. Except this time, he was shrinking over himself from shame. He felt so stupid. The drive to the hotel was long enough to give Paul time to remember they were supposed to have arrived to the Philippines already. His anxiety about it came back, but this time he breathed deeply and tried to break it into several pieces of information to keep calm and not panic again. One step at the time.

When the car arrived at the back of the hotel and they all got out, Paul slowed the pace. He was happy not to be in the hospital anymore, but he was just realizing he was going to have to face John. Last time he’d seen him they had freaking kissed, and right after he’d gone on a nearly twenty-hour drugged sleep fest. He was not exactly eager to discover his reaction about it.

They went straight to their floor, avoiding as many people as possible – news travelled fast and sure enough, journalists were mobbing the hotel employees to have news of Paul. Mal opened the door of their private lounge, and Paul braced himself.

He had not taken two steps that Ringo and George were already around him, speaking at the same time.

“Paul! How are you?”

“Fuck, you have to stop scaring us like that mate.” 

One grasped his arm and the other started awkwardly petting his head, as if they needed to touch him to make sure he was alive. Paul didn’t really like being touched by surprise, but seeing the genuine concern and relief in their eyes was heart-warming. 

“I know, I’m sorry,” He answered with a smile, happy to notice his voice sounded more normal already. “I’m okay, now.”

Neil, who was sitting in the windowsill with a portable radio in his hands, put the radio down and approached them, patting Paul’s back with a warm smile.

“You have a thing for hospitals, don’t you?” He joked, which draw a chuckle out of Paul.

As Neil was going back to the windowsill and Ringo was stepping away to talk to Brian, sitting on the couch, Paul’s gaze caught two cautious brown eyes watching him silently from across the room, and everything else drowned out around him. John's eyes were bloodshot and his features drawn, tired. Once again, his eyes held a hundred emotions captive, and Paul was entranced.

They just stared at each other for a while, not caring about what else was going on around them, until John moved and swiftly approached Paul. For a moment, Paul was convinced he was going to punch him. But when John finally reached him, he surprisingly took him in the gentlest hug ever. Despite his stupefaction, Paul hugged him tightly back, closing his eyes and breathing him in. For a second, he felt like he was allowed to.

“If you weren’t feeling unwell I would fucking punch you right now,” John whispered fiercely in his neck with a slightly quivering voice.

Paul let out a weak laugh, hugging him even tighter. When they let go of each other, Paul tried to catch his gaze but John avoided it, stepping back and turning to Brian. Paul tried to ignore the hurt that caused him.

“When did you say the plane was, already?” John asked their manager, fishing for a cigarette.

“At four. We have time to get lunch.”

A ball of anxiety sparked through Paul’s body at the words.

“Are we still going to Manila?” He asked, sounding a bit panicked.

“Are you joking? The first gig was supposed to _start_ at four,” Neil chuckled from his spot against the window.

“I had to cancel both of them,” Brian added, the tightness of his features proving this was a sore subject for him. “We didn’t know… Well, your health came first. I’m not blaming you, you know, It’s normal. But there was no choice, so now we’re going straight to India.”

The wave of relief that crashed through Paul was so intense he nearly fainted. Thankfully, George was still standing next to him and must have noticed he wasn’t strong of his feet because he wordlessly guided him to an armchair with a light hand in the small of his back. Paul dropped into it and closed his eyes for a moment, still feeling a bit slow. When he opened them again, he immediately found John’s, who was attentively watching him despite being in a conversation with Mal. Paul couldn’t help but glimpse at his moving lips and something twitched in his belly. He had kissed them. Somehow he couldn’t quite believe it yet, as if it had happened to another him on another planet. Which was sort of what his whole life felt like. 

Soon enough he was diverted from his thoughts when they all decided to get room service not to lose any time before leaving for the airport. Everyone was overly kind and careful with Paul, as if they did not fully believed him when he said what happened had been an accident. It was kind of them, but a bit suffocating as well and he was a bit relieved when, at the end of their lunch, everyone started to scatter to prepare their bags. When everyone was gone, Neil approached Paul and started fussing around him.

“I can help you pack if you want,” He said, leaning over Paul who was still sitting in his chair.

“No, no I’m fine, I’d rather do it myself. Thank you,” Paul shook his head with a reassuring smile.

“Sure?”

“Yeah yeah, go, don’t worry.”

Neil smiled, patted his shoulder one last time and left the room. Paul slowly got up, careful not to make himself dizzy, and realized with a start that he was not alone: John was behind him, checking out the dresser in a poorly disguised attempt to look occupied. Not knowing what to do and feeling suddenly extremely self-conscious, Paul swayed his weight from one foot to the other, started scratching the top of the armchair with his finger and cleared his throat loudly. John jumped and turned to him. His whole face was red, and it took Paul some seconds to realize he was _blushing_. He looked uncomfortable, and Paul hated it.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” Paul offered, pushing through his dry throat. 

This apparently grounded John a little and he nodded. 

“You really are an idiot,” He answered, sounding so serious it caused Paul to shiver. “You better never pull anything like that again.”

“I won’t,” Paul rushed to promise. Then, not wanting to dive into the why and how, he added: “Let’s just… not talk about it, yeah? I wasn’t thinking straight and I cocked it up. That’s it.”

John didn’t answer to that and they just stood in front of each other, both too embarrassed to look at the other. The memory of the previous – well, no, but, still – night came back to Paul again: nervousness numbed his fingers and he suddenly regretted everything, feeling overwhelmed with the desire to make it up. To whom and about what, he was not quite sure, but he knew what happened had to be a spur of the moment thing and he couldn’t let it get in the way of his friendship with John. He could not allow it to take John from him.

“Are we good? You and I?” He suddenly asked. “Since… you know…?”

He gaped, words dying on his tongue. But John just kept looking at him, his expression more guarded now, clearly set on letting him struggle over it. The bastard.

“You know… right?” Paul added, widening his eyes pointedly. “About what we… you know…”

“Jesus, Paul, just say the fucking word.”

“Ugh, well,” Paul grimaced, wanting to laugh it off but finding it impossible. “I mean—“

“Stop it, you’re being ridiculous!” John cut him off angrily, his voice considerably louder. “It was just a kiss, not a fucking proposal. We were drunk and that’s it. No need to be such a bloody queer about it.” 

With that he turned around and left, and Paul felt even more idiotic. But he did not have time to ponder over it that the door opened again and John was walking briskly back to him.

“And yes, of course we are good, you twit,” He let out in a still quite irritated but also sort of fond voice. It was oddly endearing. “Now hurry, we need to pack.”

Paul just nodded and in a blink John had left for good. This was not ideal, but surely not as bad as he had expected. At least John remembered – even if he apparently didn’t want to talk about it in more depth, which Paul understood. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that it wouldn’t happen again anyway. John had said it: they were drunk, and whatever that deep ‘love’-connection thing between them was, it did not have to be physical, after all. John had literally said it. They had just been a little… overwhelmed. Carried away. It was weird as hell and Paul had not quite wrapped his head around it yet, but these things happened sometimes.

Paul took a few seconds to breathe deeply and recollect himself before leaving the room as well.

The journey to the airport was calm and controlled, and when their stay in the private boarding room went undisturbed. It was nice, the quiet. Even if he wasn’t sleepy per say, Paul still felt like all his energy had been drained and he needed to recharge his batteries. Everyone seemed to understand as well, and as long as he wasn’t looking to start a conversation, nobody was imposing one on him and for that he was grateful. He was not exactly glad to go to India, the place bearing a few memories he was not fond of, especially the first iteration of John’s and his deep conversation. He had lots of great memories from there too, but at the moment, it was regret that was standing out and it was not pleasant.

Apparently, Brian had arranged a press conference for the next afternoon but they had nearly a whole day of flying in front of them, so Paul was a bit worried about being left alone to stew with his thoughts for so long. Even if he entered the plane last on purpose, hoping he would not have to choose his seat, the only place available was of course the one next to John, and he had no illusions that this was a coincidence. John was fumbling with something in his carry-on and had not noticed his presence yet.

“Hey,” Paul said, feeling awkward again.

John looked up in surprise, took him in quickly, and pulled a small smile.

“Hey.”

Paul sat, knowing he was taking way too much time to settle in for it to look natural. He didn’t like it, feeling so embarrassed, but at least he and John were still talking. So, progress. He shot a quick glance to John again right when his friend was doing the same thing, so they just ended up both smiling awkwardly, looking like a right couple of idiots. Paul just stared straight ahead then, which didn’t provide a very interesting vision. His eyes were fighting to look elsewhere but he wouldn’t let them win. And he could see from the corner of his field of vision that John was doing the same. At least he wasn’t alone to feel weird about it all.

“Sorry I shouted earlier,” John suddenly said, clearly nervous, still not looking at him.

“It’s fine,” Paul reassured him straight away, mirroring him.

“I didn’t mean—“

“I know. And I wasn’t thinking—“

“Of course, yeah.”

They stopped talking, letting the silence settle over them. After a while, Paul took a book out and started reading it, pushing through even though the letters were dancing in front of his eyes without forming actual words, or even less baring any meaning. He could feel John moving next to him, probably looking at the window and trying to find a comfortable position. Maybe he would sleep and Paul would be able to fucking _breathe_ for a while.

“Was it really just an accident?” John’s soft voice whispered after a moment, making Paul look up from his book and finally turn his head. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I would… I. Need to be sure.”

There was something so raw, so genuine in John’s eyes that Paul sort of felt himself choke up. He had _really_ scared them. He nodded, finding it hard to talk all of a sudden. John studied his face, his eyes flickering for the briefest moment to his lips, and nodded as well. He didn’t look that reassured, but at least he was humouring Paul.

“Okay,” He said again, quiet. “Okay, good.”

He turned his head back to the window, snuggling against it, and Paul went back to his book. When the sky outside was starting to turn dark and everyone on board had turned more or less quiet, Paul put his book on the side and pulled out a light blanket over his legs. John was sleeping already, his hair falling over his closed eyelids and his chest rising slowly with his breathing. The way he had tucked his hands under his cheek made him look like a little boy, so fragile and soft. He had always had a soft spot for sleeping John. Paul smiled at the sight, feeling something deep and comforting in his chest. Even if things were a little awkward still, he knew that as soon as they would put the, um, kissing episode behind them, they would be alright. He closed his eyes as well and let John’s calm breathing lull him to sleep.


	26. Chapter 26

India was just as humid as ever, and Paul wanted to take a shower the second his foot was out of the plane. They were all coming out, waving to the crowd of people who had somehow learned about their early arrival to the country. It was not as bad as it could get, but it tended to always slow things down. Coming out last, Paul was standing on the last march of the stairs, looking out over the hundreds of people gathered on the tarmac, and already felt sweat unpleasantly dripping in his neck along his spine. This promised to be a long day.

“It’s so humid my hair is all falling down,” Ringo, who was first in line, said to them when he turned, still waving distractedly from one hand and pulling at his fringe with the other.

“Yeah, because it’s true that usually it’s standing up,” John retorted without a beat, smiling just between George and Paul.

George snorted and Paul fought not to smile too wide. Ringo laughed as well and they all went down the stairs. He had not taken two steps that Brian was siding along with Paul, lowering his head so that nobody could hear what he was saying. 

“If they ask about the Manila concerts, the only official statement was that you were unwell and couldn’t perform. You should probably stick to that, no need to give too many details. We can think of a longer statement when we’re back home. Alright?” Brian told me, his kind gaze observing Paul. 

“Alright, thanks,” Paul nodded, grateful not to have to dive too deep into the subject. 

He did not feel comfortable talking about it – not with his friends, and even less with the rest of the world. Brian left him and the security guards gathered them in a corner as the car was finally arriving to get them out of the airport while Brian and Neil were dealing with customs. Mal opened the trunk and Paul followed George to put down their carry-ons. John was just behind them, and when he bent in front of Paul to put his bag down, he was so close Paul could feel his body heat through their clothes. It felt strange, to be so close to him after… After. When John leant back, his scorching gaze crossed Paul’s and for a second, Paul had the insane certainty that he was going to kiss him. Which was stupid of course, especially as there were literally hundreds of people around them. But the next second the moment was gone and John was stepping away, back towards the car where everyone was already sitting. Paul shook his head to clear his mind. He needed to stop thinking about that night, it was ridiculous.

He hopped in as well and thankfully it was George who was sitting in the middle. Paul did not know if he could ‘touch’ John’s thigh without feeling uncomfortable. It would pass, surely, but the images were still too vivid in his mind. 

“News travel fast over here,” George drawled as they were driving in the middle of the crowd to get to the actual airport. 

“Apparently there was an article about our arrival just this morning,” Mal filled him in from his seat in front, next to Ringo. “Some of them must have been sticking around just in case.”

“They were probably glued on by the moist,” Paul voiced, rubbing his sticky fingers together. 

He could feel more than he saw movement on his right and when he turned his head behind George, John was looking at him with an amused grin. Paul grinned back. 

They barely had time to recover from their trip in the VIP lounge that Brian was coming back from the customs and they were all led to the press conference. Paul braced himself and closely followed John, knowing he had to look healthier than he felt if they wanted to avoid any inappropriate comment. Twisting the truth, omitting things: he had not missed it, but he was used to it. Sure enough, a good three dozen of journalists were already packed into the tiny room and cameras flashed as soon as they entered and went to the table set up for them. Paul entered the one before last, between John and George, and plastered on a smile that was a bit more forced than usual. They all sat down and questions started immediately, variations about their upcoming album, the American leg of the tour, their favourite pass times and other random details. Nothing out of the ordinary, especially since they’d had one back in Japan already so Paul had been eased back into it beforehand. A discreet wink from Brian told him they were nearing the end of the panel and he was relieved that no question had been asked about the cancelled shows. But of course his luck turned right when relief was seeping through him.

“Yes, I think it’s fourteen songs, yeah,” Ringo was saying, glancing at John for confirmation, but John only grimaced back. “We might add a couple of bonus tracks.”

“Yeah,” George smiled. “We’re trying to win our producer over by annoying him to death.”

Paul chortled along with the journalists. He loved how George could always find the way to say absurd truths in such a way that no one would believe him. Laughter was dying down when another hand rose from the back of the group of people.

“You had to cancel two shows yesterday in the Philippines,” The journalist stated with an airy voice. “You never cancel shows. Why is that?”

Paul felt his throat tighten and threw a glance at Brian, who was standing up at the other side of the table and only nodded to him, confident. That gave Paul the impulse he needed.

“That one’s on me, I was feeling quite unwell since the night before. I couldn’t perform. But I’m alright now,” He answered with an easy smile. “We’re just really sorry for all the people who were planning to see us, you know.”

“They must have found themselves quite lost,” John added casually. And then, with a freaking snort, he added: “Nothing to do on a Sunday without the Church and without music.”

There was a second of floating perplexity in the assembly, with a couple of journalists frowning at his words. Paul turned to John, feeling his skin itch unpleasantly at the statement. Some lost memory reminded him that Christianity was big in the Philippines, and he was instantly filled with the dreadful certainty that things could go very wrong very fast. He pushed John’s leg with his knee to get his attention and John turned curious eyes to him, but just as he was trying to shake his head as discreetly as possible, another voice rose.

“What do you mean?” Another journalist tacked on, a challenging edge to his tone.

John turned his attention to him and opened his mouth to answer. An icy shiver went through Paul’s spine. _No no no no_, turned in a loop in his head. This was a nightmare, it could not be happening. A shot of adrenaline kicked in and his brain rushed to find something to stop him without making the situation worse.

“Well, people don’t really go to mass nowadays, do they?” John started slowly, apparently trying to clarify his own thoughts and oblivious to Paul’s warnings. “Christianity is not as big as it was, there’s not as many people who go to Church anymore. That’s pretty much what’s happening everywhere, at least in England it is. In the end, you know… it’s—“ 

“Yes, um, what he’s… what he’s saying is that faith is a very intimate thing, more than it used to be,” Paul cut him off loudly with what he hoped was a confident voice. “A lot of people don’t go to churches as often as they used to, they brought religion into their homes. It seems to be a bit less of a, you know, communal thing. It’s more personal, in a way. The religion is still as strong, but people’s habits have changed a bit. But like John said… we mostly know about England. ” 

That seemed to somewhat satisfy the journalist, whose frown very slowly morphed into a sort of nod of approval, even though some other faces in the crowd looked less convinced. No more questions were asked about the subject, and Paul spent the remainder of the conference ignoring John’s glances. When the last question came around and Brian finally stepped in to tell everyone they needed to leave, Paul couldn’t hold the sigh of relief that escaped him. They all stood up and followed Brian and the bodyguards out of the room. Finding a way through the crowd was not easy, but they were used to it and not long after they were back in the common lounge. Paul left straight away to the bathroom, his bladder now painfully remind itself to him. He had barely taken three steps into the bathroom that the door opened abruptly behind him, making him turn. John was standing a good three meters in front of him, hands on his hips. He sort of looked like he was about to scold a puppy, and Paul was not sure how he felt about that.

“So what was that?” John started without any preamble. “You’re a Christian expert, now?”

Paul took in his frown and the annoyed but also curious glint in his eyes. Of course he would bring it up.

“You were on slippery ground,” Paul answered simply. “I had to stop you or you might have offended people without wanting to. And why would you even bring mass up? It’s Tuesday, the concerts wouldn’t have been on Sunday anyway.”

John frowned harder but somehow his demeanour softened a little. 

“Are you sure? I thought it was Monday today.”

“No, it’s not!” Paul replied forcefully. Then, softer: “Just… be careful, please.”

John just studied his face, pensive. 

“Is this about the Evening Standard thing again?” He asked, quieter.

Paul sighed, feeling like an obnoxious tosser for bringing up his ‘future knowledge’ like that. But when he looked back into John’s light eyes, he found that he couldn’t lie anyway – not to him. After a while, he just nodded.

“I just think we better be cautious, yeah?”

“Sure, whatever,” John thankfully conceded, sounding a bit expeditious. “Just, warn me next time, yeah? So I don’t look like a right git in front of all of bloody India.”

“Sorry,” Paul winced, having not really thought about that.

“’S alright.”

A small silence fell upon them, that neither knew how to break. Paul was about to open his mouth to get the conversation going – he didn’t know what to talk about, but he just knew he wanted John to stick around as long as he could – but John chose that moment to clap his hands in a stilted movement. He was wetting his lips and Paul caught the movement, immediately diverting his eyes when he realized what he was doing. John looked embarrassed, and Paul could not help but feel it was his fault.

“Well,” He started, his voice too loud in the empty bathroom. “I’m going to go back to Rings, he wanted to show me something. So… um. Cheers!”

And with that he left Paul alone in the bathroom, not knowing what he was doing here until the pain in his bladder abruptly awoke.

He was finally back in England, back with Thisbe and his empty apartment, and Paul felt… restless. Now that he was truly alone for the first time in weeks, he could no longer ignore the elephant in the room. 

He could not stop thinking about John.

It was the smallest, more benign things at first. He would prepare his coffee and take out two mugs. Open his window in the morning and chuckle at the thought that John would be pissed off about it. See something funny on TV and think that John would like it. Stop using coriander in his cooking because he knew John hated it. Comb his hair in the morning and think fondly about the rebellious lock next to John’s right ear that he couldn’t tame no matter what he did. Ask Thisbe if she missed John too practically every time he petted her. Walk in the street and randomly wonder what John was doing, ten, twenty times a day. It was ridiculous, really. 

Even thinking about his children made him think of John somehow; he wondered how he would have behaved with them, if they would have gotten along well. The most surprising fact about that was that when he was daydreaming scenes where they were meeting, he was not seeing old, 40-year-old John, the most logical version in relation to his old life. He was seeing present John, 25-year-old, with the bright eyes, the full cheeks and the soft smile. It made no sense, to picture them together, and most of the time it ended hurting Paul more than anything else, but he could not help it. John had fitted everywhere in his new life, and his mind seemed to be set on making him fit everywhere in his older life as well. Had he been twelve, he would probably be writing his name all over his notebooks in a vain attempt to exorcise it, like a kid with a crush on his new neighbour – except the neighbour was male and one of his oldest friends. And not a romantic interest, obviously. (Even though, when he was watching romantic scenes in movies, he surprised himself thinking more about the kiss John and he had shared than about his own wife. Which made him feel all kinds of uncomfortable.)

Somehow, every time he thought about John – so, _a lot_ – he ended up thinking about _that_ conversation, and the heated moment that had followed. He still could not understand how the urge to kiss him had surged up from nowhere, all of a sudden, and yet feel so natural. The scene kept replaying in his head, and each time he tried to find the one element that could explain it. Make sense of it. But the only conclusion he could come to was always the same: they had been, at that one moment in time, on a very specific wavelength together, and probably both lonely and a bit touch-deprived. After all, John had left Cynthia and Paul had been alone ever since he’d arrived in the past. Even though thinking about that whole evening did not bring anything new to the table, he could not help it.

It did not help that John was obviously a very good kisser. It was weird, to think about it, but after a few days of dwelling on it he had to at least admit it to himself: he had liked it. Very much. It had not been as disgusting and off-putting as kissing his male best friend was supposed to be. And from a purely objective point of view, he would not mind doing it again. He wouldn’t, of course; it would be stupid, and dangerous. It could shatter their relationship to pieces, endanger the band, endanger John himself by changing his future in a tremendous way. If they kissed again, what would that make them? What would become of their friendship? It would not survive it. They would just tumble down that ‘awkward’ road and crash at the bottom. Kisses could not be strictly innocent – even if kissing John was nice, why would he do it? It was not like they wanted to date or anything. The very thought made him laugh. He was not _attracted_ to John. When he thought about him he was not picturing him naked or anything. _That_ was a terrifying thought. And he was, very obviously, not freaking gay. He could not carelessly play with destiny just because he had discovered by chance that John was an amazing kisser and he missed kissing people. 

Anyway, his obsession could not be healthy. Perhaps it was a good thing that John had moved out after all; he had spent so much time with the man that he had sort of forgotten other people existed for a while. Maybe he could go out with old friends, meet new people, pick up girls. He did not really want to, but it could not hurt, could it? It would do him good to see new faces, clear his mind a little. Trust new people. That was undoubtedly the hardest part, but he was making efforts already – after all, he was now closer to George than he had probably ever been. Maybe if he told George about the future thing, he would understand… 

But as soon as the thought crossed his mind, Paul pushed it aside. No. Something told him it was better to keep that knowledge well-guarded. He trusted George, of course he did, but with John, he knew his secret was unquestionably protected. He trusted him with his life, literally. He didn’t want to share that with anyone else. What John and he had was different. Maybe that was precisely what John meant when he talked about their connection.

Each night in his bed, Thisbe curled up on his belly or against his legs, John’s face inevitably popped in his mind. He needed to stop acting like an idiot and man up. John was his friend. Seeing him appeased Paul. It always had, in a way, and now the feeling only was stronger. Paul was allowed to see him, to spend time with him, even if his behaviour tended a little towards dependence. They had kissed, so what? It was not that out of place coming from them. They were different, together. And his secret was safe with John. 

_He_ was safe.

As if destiny had decided to keep messing with his plans, though, he never got to _actually_ see John. They always seemed to miss occasions: they had either plans with other people, or diverse obligations, or things coming up at the last minute. Paul had noticed that it was always John who ended up not being able to meet up for some reason or another. He was not daft, he knew John was avoiding him, or at the very least avoided having to stay alone with him. It hurt, a bit, but Paul felt like he had no right to complain. He had been a right dick to John for weeks, and who was he to demand his attention anyway? The man had a life outside of Paul. The only two times they saw each other in two weeks involved a Beatle award thing and a grouped visit to Pattie, who was alright despite pretty much dying from boredom. And both times, John stuck to Ringo’s or George’s side and turned his eyes away each time Paul would look at him. It was infuriating, but Paul bit his tongue. John was probably just feeling awkward, still. It would pass, eventually.

So when on a rainy Monday afternoon, Paul was disturbed in his reading by someone insistently ringing his doorbell, he did not expect to open the door on John, dishevelled, breathing heavily and looking pale as a ghost. He was drenched from the rain outside and had a newspaper in his hand, square-rimmed glasses on his nose and his shirt buttoned askew. In other words, he was a mess.

“How did you know?” John blurted, his eyes drilling into Paul’s.

“Wh—“

John waved the newspaper under his nose, visibly not having an ounce of patience left.

“Montgomery Clift. He’s dead.”

Paul tried to look at the side article John was pointing at, recognizing the actor’s face in the picture, but John quickly pulled the newspaper back and started reading it with a wavering voice. 

“’Actor Montgomery Clift, 45, three times nominated for Academy Awards, died early Saturday of a heart attack in his plush East Side townhouse.’ ” He tucked the newspaper under his armpit and dug around in his pocket to retrieve a rumpled piece of paper that Paul recognized instantly. “And on this, you wrote…” He unfolded it and read again. “Here. ‘Montgomery Clift will die in July of a heart attack.’ And not just that. The religious thing, too. The Rolling Stones album. George’s wedding. Even the fucking Grammy Awards! How the _fuck_ did you know?”

John was now staring at him, shivering all over, something determined but definitely scared in his eyes. Paul rubbed his mouth, feeling his own hand shiver as well.

“You know how,” he finally said in a quiet voice.

The two men stared at each other in silence. Slowly, something heavy and serious settled on John’s face. Paul knew in that moment that he truly believed him. He finally did.

“It’s true,” he breathed, his lips staying slightly parted.

Unable to leave his eyes, Paul slowly nodded. Seeing the shock in John’s eyes get to a full bloom, he stepped aside to let him enter.

“I think… I think you should come in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a.k.a, pining fest!  
Here's the link to the actual article about Montgomery Clift (I take quoting very seriously, alright):  
https://www.latimes.com/local/obituaries/archives/la-me-montgomery-clift-19660724-snap-htmlstory.html


	27. Chapter 27

The silence was deafening. 

Paul was sitting on the very edge of his chair, his slightly shaky elbows on the table. In front of him, John was on another chair, arms crossed and frowning eyes set somewhere on the floor. He was still dripping, the raindrops falling in a regular and slightly unnerving rhythm on the parquet. Ever since he had followed Paul inside, he hadn’t said a single word. Anxiety gnawing at his insides, Paul was just opening his mouth to talk when John spoke in a weirdly hoarse voice. He still wasn’t looking at Paul.

“How old are you?”

It surprised Paul, somehow, that this was the first question that John would want to ask. It took him a couple of seconds to find his voice to answer.

“I’m– I should be 78, now.”

“Jesus fuck,” John let out in a breath, finally locking eyes with Paul.

“I know,” Paul mirthlessly chuckled.

“Do you still feel old?”

“No. No I feel fine, really. Young. I mean, now I got used to it again but in the early days I sort of felt like superman.”

Paul hoped that would make John laugh a little, and help ease the tension, but John just stared at him. He still looked a little spooked and he was observing Paul’s every move as if he expected him to vanish from one second to the next. It was no surprise, really. Paul could not even begin to comprehend what was going on in his friend’s head at the moment. 

“You must think I’m an arsehole,” John suddenly said, looking down again.

Well, that was definitely not what Paul was expecting.

“Why?” He frowned.

“I thought you were a psychic,” John explained, not daring to look at Paul. “That you had sort of seen the future, you know, all of it? That that was why you remembered it? I mean, you told me the truth, you did… but I don’t know. I didn’t totally believe it. It’s stupid, but it seemed more realistic to me to have you being a psychic than to have you coming straight _from_ the bloody future.”

Paul lowered his head as well, gripping the spoon hanging innocently on the table and twisting it in his hands. He could see why John would have gone to that conclusion. Things would have been easier had it been the case.

“I see why you would think that,” He settled on answering.

“I’m sorry.”

He sounded so genuine, so heartfelt that Paul felt his own throat choke up a little.

“It’s alright. You did believe me, as much as you could.”

A new silence fell over them and Paul took the time to study John’s face. He looked… overwhelmed, to say the least. He knew John needed time to process the news, but still he was surprised he was not asking him more. That had been the biggest proof that John had doubts, the fact that he rarely ever asked questions about the future. But now that he knew for real, he was still keeping surprisingly quiet. Maybe he did not dare to.

“You can ask me things, you know,” He told him. “There are some I guess I should not tell you about, a lot probably, but… I don’t know. You must wonder about a lot of things.”

“Are you allowed to?” John asked, pulling a perplexed face.

“I don’t know. I don’t know the rules of time-travelling. I’m improvising here.”

That got a small smile out of John, and Paul’s heart swelled at the sight.

“I don’t even know what to ask to be honest,” His friend confessed.

“That’s fair.”

“I feel like I should be asking about shite like politics or world wars but I’m not sure I really care about that,” John joked feebly.

Paul laughed, the sound strange to his own ears. 

“Well, there hasn’t been a third world war, you can rest assured.”

“Thank you, I’ll sleep better tonight.”

“You’re welcome.”

John grinned, tiny folds forming on each side of his nose. He looked lovely. His eyes squinted a little behind the glasses, visibly thinking over his next question.

“Are you married?”

Paul’s smile immediately faltered and he had to look away for a second.

“Hum… yeah. Yes. Not that it really, you know. Matters, now.”

John’s eyebrows shot up but in a blink his expression was back to carefully blank again.

“You have kids?”

Paul twitched on his seat. 

“Yes. Five. And… and grandchildren.”

John just looked at him with so much intensity and understanding in his eyes Paul just had to look away. This was getting way too much way too fast. Maybe the question thing was not such a good idea after all…

“You must miss them,” John voiced suddenly, ever so gently.

Paul mirthlessly laughed, trying his hardest to bend the spoon in half.

“I think about them all the time.”

He looked up to give John a tight smile before feeling the urge to talk about it. To explain.

“The worst thing is… I keep thinking they don’t really exist, anymore. Since I’m here? You know, even if I, even if I still meet my wife and have children again… they just. They won’t be _them_, you know? And for my grandchildren it’s even worse, they’re just… They’re completely gone. They have next to no chance to get born again. They only exist in my head now, and I’ll never see them again, and it’s just…” He stopped to take a deep breath, his voice wavering so much he was not sure John could actually understand him. He was not used to not controlling his own voice like that. “They’re gone and I can’t even fucking grieve over them.”

He stopped talking and closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe deeply and not let emotions overwhelm him. He couldn’t let them take over. Not now. Not ever. When he opened his eyes again, John was leaning on his elbows towards him, a concerned frown on his face. His hand hovered over Paul’s arm but when Paul raised himself a bit, he quickly retracted it.

“I’m so sorry, Paul,” He murmured. 

Paul let out a deep breath, chuckling his desire to cry away.

“It’s weird to be talking about them,” He confessed.

“You can talk to me about them whenever you want, you know. Or about anything else. Or not, if you prefer. I’m here either way,” John told him. 

Paul locked eyes with him, feeling his heart grow three sizes. What had he done to deserve someone as precious as John in his life, honestly? 

Surprisingly, John did not ask any more questions, as if he had decided to let the topic drop for the moment. Paul could not say that he minded, even though he felt like a big weight had been lifted off his shoulders. John believed him. He had kept the list, had checked it. And seeing the state of said paper, more than once. He was with Paul on this, and Paul could now truly rely on him whenever he had an issue concerning the future/past. He would believe him no matter what, he just knew it. It was so nice to feel… not alone. Understood.

“Can you stay?” Paul asked, suddenly fearing John would just go back to his house now that his initial curiosity had been satisfied. “I mean, if you have nothing to do, you know. We could… just, watch TV, or something?”

John just looked at him, an unreadable expression on his face. For a chilling minute, Paul thought he was going to refuse, but then he shrugged and gave him a small, embarrassed smile.

“Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

So the two of them got up and padded to the living-room. Paul opened a cabinet and took out a packet of nuts on the way, in case. When he entered the living-room, John was already sitting on the couch, socked feet on it and arms clasped around his bent legs. He didn’t look comfortable one bit and that saddened Paul, but he chose not to question it. He turned the TV on, put the nuts on the table and sat down next to John, careful not to touch him and to leave a reasonable space between them.

There was a music show on, so they started watching it idly. Paul couldn’t quite concentrate on what was going on, his mind going a mile a minute, and figured John had to be pretty much in the same state. He chanced a glance at his friend who, as expected, had his gaze slightly unfocused, proving he was not really watching the show either. Thisbe chose that moment to arrive, mewing softly, and jumped directly next to John. Of course, even his own cat liked John better. She put a paw on John’s arm, who lowered his legs to allow her on his lap. It was so heart-warming, to have John next to him like that again, that for a second it felt like he was still living there. But as soon as the thought went, coldness bit at Paul’s heart.

“It’s weird to have you here again,” Paul chuckled, a bit awkward. Then, sensing this might be taken the wrong way, he added: “I mean, it’s nice. It’s been, um, empty, these days.”

John turned to him with an arched eyebrow but did not answer, rather directing his attention to Thisbe who had started purring loudly.

“See, she missed you,” Paul joked. 

At that John chuckled too, scratching the cat’s chin. 

“Sorry I’ve been a bit… distant, lately,” John suddenly said, taking Paul completely off-guard.

Paul was about to answer – and refute it, probably, his instincts lately only shouting at him to ease John’s mind at any cost – when John went on, his eyes still on Thisbe rather than on Paul or the TV.

“I don’t mean… I mean, these last few weeks, you know. Not just since Tokyo.”

Paul looked at the cat too, finding it easier than seeing the embarrassment and shyness pouring out of his friend. He was pretty sure his own cheeks had considerably reddened as well.

“I was mad at you,” John added quietly.

“Why?”

The question was soft. But somehow, _somehow_, John’s answer was even softer.

“I don’t know. I don’t always need a reason.”

Paul did not know how to understand that, or what to answer, so he just didn’t. They let silence come over them again, both turning finally their attention to the TV. After a while, John announced he needed to pee, pushing Thisbe off his lap. There was something so sombre in his demeanour that Paul watched him get up with a frown. As he was leaving the living-room, Paul called him out, suddenly urgent.

“John?”

John stopped in his tracks, a hand on the wall. 

“It’s not true, what you said. You don’t get mad for nothing, you know. Don’t let yourself believe that.”

John looked at him with a pensive frown, but did not answer and just continued on his way. Paul settled back on the couch, still deep in thought. But a few seconds later, John was barging back into the living-room, some new colour on his cheeks.

“You know what, you’re right. I was mad for a reason,” John started, pointing an accusatory finger at Paul. “You bought me a fucking bed.”

Paul’s eyes widened and he just gaped at him. How was that even a reason?!

“_What_?!” He shrieked.

“You bought me a bed, instead of just helping me to find another place like any normal… like, friend! And like a daft fucking twat I was so happy, I thought you were, you know, glad to have me. For a while. I knew I was supposed to find my own place at some point, but you made me feel… bloody welcome.”

Paul grimaced, feeling weirdly offended.

“Why the hell did you leave then?”

“I was waiting for you to ask me to stay!” John blurted out. 

“How could I fucking ask you that?! You’re not—” Paul caught himself just in time – he didn’t know what he was about to say, but he knew it wasn’t the moment to say it.

They just stared at each other in silence, Paul feeling his neck blushing and willing it not to show too much. If John knew how many times he’d stopped himself from asking him to stay longer, or hell, even forever, he would probably be even madder.

“I thought…” John continued, lowering his gaze. “When I told you I was looking for a house and everything, you just looked like you didn’t give a shit whether I was here or not. Like you’d just been pitying me the whole time.”

“How was I supposed to behave? You were barely talking to me!” Paul defended himself, feeling cornered.

“_You_ were barely talking to _me_!”

John was breathing heavily now, a blush on his cheeks that somewhat reassured Paul. He was just as emotional about this as Paul was, in the end. The realization made him sigh and giggle, which only made John frown harder.

“So what, we’re both idiots?” Paul asked him, laughter taking slowly control of him.

John stood speechless for a second until Paul’s laughter caught him and he started giggling as well.

“Shut up. It’s not funny,” John retorted, his giggles remarkably undermining his words.

“Weren’t you going to piss?” Paul joked, feeling giddier than he’d had in months.

“Shit!” 

When John went running back to the corridor, Paul only laughed harder.

Paul was on the waiting room of a therapist he had found via Brian and who was reputed for her efficiency and her discretion. He was awfully nervous, his legs jittery and restless. He was feeling better – he was. Ever since John had come to him about Montgomery Clift, things were better between them. Much warmer, even if they still stayed at an arm length all the time from each other, as if they were afraid of what might happen if they so much as brushed arms. It was so reassuring, to know he had not lost him for good. Their friendship had seemed so fragile for a while, as if the lightest gust of would could blow John away from him. But he was there. He was still there.

But when Paul had called his dad, he had been crushed by how worried his dad sounded about the hospital thing. Paul had not told him everything, not wanting to worry him further, but this only made it clearer how serious the situation had been. He could not just ignore it. Especially since he still was not sleeping very well, the new pills the doctors had prescribed him being basically useless. If he slept more than three hours a night he considered himself lucky. So, not so great. 

That was why he had decided to find professional help. He had already gone to a therapist once, when Linda had died, and it had helped a lot. He could not talk about his whole situation, of course (saying he was coming from the future would _not_ have the intended outcome) but at least he might be able to sort out a few of his anxieties and figure out why exactly he was unable to sleep and really rest.

“Mr. McCartney?”

Paul snapped his head up and his gaze crossed the dark eyes of a woman who had to be in her fifties. She looked stiff and direct, but there was a kind and intelligent glint in her eyes that Paul liked instantly. 

“Yes.”

“Follow me, please.”

Paul obeyed and soon found himself in a little room with cream wallpaper, two plush armchairs and shelves overflowing with books along the walls. It smelled a bit like in an old library, a smell Paul had come to associate with his days in school, a lifetime ago. The woman, Dr. Lavenish, sat in one armchair and Paul went to the other one without hesitation. The doctor watched him settle in without a word. There was a notepad and a pen on the small table next to her, but she didn’t make any move to take them.

“So,” She started in a lively tone. “How do you feel?”

Paul raised his eyebrows and sent her a smile.

“Good. Good, good, I’m fine, yeah.”

“Why are you here then?” She retorted with a small smile.

Paul chuckled embarrassedly. 

“I… I think too much, I guess,” He confessed, feeling stupid now that he was saying it out loud.

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Well, it keeps me from sleeping, so. You know.”

The doctor narrowed her eyes at him, but only crossed her fingers over her lap. Paul shifted in his seat, feeling a bit unnerved by her gaze.

“What do you think about?”

Paul thought carefully about his answer, trying to find the way to talk about his issues without sharing what was off-limit. 

“My… um, personal life, has changed a lot in the last months? I’ve lost… you know, some people and other more, abstract, things. You know. Like, truths that have vanished. They were these… unshakable pillars, and by some string of events I had no control over, I lost them,” He somehow explained.

He was happy to have talked about it a bit with John first, words coming more easily to him now that he had already tried to find them once.

“Are you sure they are lost for good?”

“Yes. Yes, there’s no doubt about that,” Paul snorted mirthlessly.

The doctor did not push him further, looking like she was giving Paul the space to elaborate if he wanted too. It was a nice feeling. He was not good at being cornered about his feelings. He was not good at voicing them at all and it was strange to have to do it in front of a stranger again. But in a way, it was also easier. 

“The thing is, it’s frustrating because thinking about them won’t bring them back, you know? It feels so… pointless. It just makes me feel… not good. At all. And when I finally fall asleep, from exhaustion you know, I sleep for only a couple of hours, and then I wake up and I just think about them again. It never stops. And, you know, with my job… We were touring last month and I was just so tired I almost overdosed on sleeping pills. It was a bit ridiculous, but I just. Don’t know what to do, really?”

Lavenish observed him for a while and then diverted her gaze, visibly mulling it over. 

“What wakes you up? Do you wake up naturally, or do you have nightmares?” She finally asked. 

Paul thought it over. He had not remembered his dreams in quite a while, now that she was mentioning it.

“I think I have nightmares, but I don’t remember them these days. I mean, I remember them when I wake up but after I just forget, I guess. I’m just, all sweaty and, you know. Out of breath, shaking, that kind of thing.”

“Your sleep is pretty troubled, then.”

“Yes, that’s for sure,” Paul chuckled.

“Do you think you could try and write what you remember from your dreams, when you wake up? It could be interesting to pinpoint what lingers on your mind, more specifically.”

“I could try, yes,” Paul conceded, not sure how that could help him sleep better but willing to go just along with it. “I could try.”

When Paul went home once the hour was up, he felt somewhat lighter. Things were far from being okay, but it was getting there and he was decided not to let himself drown again. It would take time, for sure, but he knew he could do it. After all, he had John now. They were best mates again. Connected in more ways than one. He could face whatever was coming at him.

He had been thinking about it for a while, but he made his decision on a burning hot Saturday morning. Thisbe was sprawled out on the windowsill, trying to find a breeze of air and waving her tail around and lazily watching Paul busying himself around the house. It was unusual to have such a warm day in London, and Paul was not used to be that sweaty inside his own house, but it was nice all the same. A welcomed change. He could hear kids playing and screaming from the opened windows, probably enjoying their summer vacation in the park nearby. It made him want to take long strolls in it and just relax under the sun. That’s when he knew he wanted to do it.

Finding the right information was not easy, and it took most of his morning, but after relentless research, he got what he wanted. He was so excited he barely could stop himself from taking his keys and jumping into his car. He was eating a quick meal, sitting on the windowsill next to Thisbe, when he realized he did not want to do it alone, this time. Maybe…

Putting his plate aside, he went to his rotary phone and composed the number he had copied on a piece of paper stuck to the wall. It rang only twice.

“Hello?” The familiar nasal voice answered.

“Hey. Are you busy today? Do you want to come with me to the country?”

There was shuffling on the other side of the line. It made Paul realize he had never actually been to John’s new house. He also noticed he did not particularly want to.

“Um, no I’m not specifically busy, no,” John answered after a while. “Where do you want to go?”

“High Wycombe?”

Paul twisted the cord in his hands. He was feeling strangely nervous.

“Uh, okay. Not sure where that is, but, sure.”

“Really?” Paul replied, surprised that he would accept so easily.

“Yeah. As long as you’re driving.”

Paul bowed his head, feeling a giddy smile tug at his lips. 

“Great. I’ll pick you up in an hour. See you!”

With that he hung up, feeling like a teenager going on an impromptu road trip with their best friend.

They had nearly arrived to their destination when John finally asked. They had spent the whole trip listening to music on the radio and calmly chit-chatting, enjoying the breeze from the rolled down windows. It was nice. John had his elbow pointing out of the car and looked peaceful, even if still more guarded than usual. He didn’t have his glasses on so Paul knew he had not the slightest idea where they were, not being able to rely on the road signs. But he still seemed happy to just let Paul drive him around.

“Are you taking me to your time machine, then?” He said, sending a lopsided grin to Paul.

“I wish,” Paul joked.

He saw John slowly turn his head out again from the corner of his eye. The movement made him feel weird.

“No, I’m buying something,” Paul added, not liking the sudden silence.

“A house?”

Paul licked his lips in concentration as he was turning into a smaller, cobbled road.

“Nope,” He finally answered as he was slowing the car down. “We’re here.”

The two got out of the car and walked to the old brick house standing at the end of the path. As they were nearing it, a gigantic dog rushed out from nowhere and came to them, barking happily.

“Jesus, what is that?! A bear?” John blurted out when the dog started trying to put his massive paws on his chest, making him lose his balance.

Paul reached a hand out on his bare arm to stabilize him and John’s head snapped to him with wide eyes. The second he was strong on his feet, Paul let him go. His hand was burning.

“Oh, hello, you’ve made it!” A light voice came to them. 

They both turned and sure enough, the landlady was coming to them. Paul was happy to recognize her face. Next to him John was silent, probably a bit confused still at what they were doing there. The lady shook their hands, looking flustered. She probably didn’t expect to meet two Beatles for the price of one.

“Come along then, the puppies are inside,” She told them, leading them to the house.

Paul followed her and John fell into step with him.

“You’re buying a dog, then?” He whispered to Paul as they were entering the cosy place.

“Yup!” Paul replied, not able to contain his giddy smile.

“I thought you didn’t want one as long as you lived in an apartment?” John asked, a similar impish grin on his face.

Paul raised his eyebrows and turned to him, his breath hitching for a second when he saw how close behind John actually was. 

“Guess I changed my mind,” He managed to force out, turning his attention back to his own feet and ignoring the blush blossoming on his neck.

They arrived into what appeared to be a spare room turned into a nursery for puppies. Inside a giant basket were playing three balls of fur, yapping excitedly at the sight of the visitors. Paul spotted her immediately. Excitement was burning at his insides and tingling in his fingers. 

Ignoring the lady who was telling them about the pedigree and how clean the puppies were already, he kneeled in front of the tiniest one with the dark ear. She stumbled towards him and nudged his hand with her wet nose. Paul almost wanted to cry when he realized she was exactly the same, his heart bursting with flowers and fireworks. Here he was, a grown man, getting teary-eyed over a puppy.

“Hello, my dear,” He murmured to her, fighting to control the emotion in his voice. 

A phone rang somewhere in the house. 

“Excuse me, it’ll be just a minute,” He vaguely registered the lady saying before hearing her walking out of the room.

Paul petted the puppy and marvelled at her. It was so strange. He had hesitated so long over whether he should just adopt her again or not, remembering how devastated he had been when she had died. But then again, life was so short and so painful already he did not see the point in trying to avoid heartache anymore, and figured he might as well cherish what he could retrieve from his past.

“It’s not just _a_ dog, is it?” John asked softly after a while, bringing Paul out of his bubble.

Paul just turned to him with a shy, blushing smile. The lady came back only to see Paul gently cradling Martha in his arms, totally disregarding the other two puppies who were busy play-fighting with each other. John, who was still standing near the door, turned to her. 

“I think he’s made his choice,” He simply told her.

And wasn’t that the truth.

Paying the lady and receiving the few necessary information did not take long and soon after the two men were returning to the car, Martha still safely huddled in Paul’s arms. Just like in his memory, the lady shyly asked if she could take a picture of him with the puppy and its mother. John stood pointedly in the back, making it clear that if she didn’t ask, he would not go on the picture too. She did not ask – probably not daring too, which Paul could understand. They shared their goodbyes and entered the car, the lady walking back to her house. Unfortunately, Paul was forced to give the puppy to John if he wanted to be able to drive and the handover was made only more difficult seeing how damn happy Martha was to just put sniff everything she saw. Once nestled on John’s lap, she just started licking his chin and he struggled to keep his face out of her reach, laughing away.

“She’s a beauty but she doesn’t have the best breath,” He laughed, which only made the puppy waggle her tail with more enthusiasm.

Paul laughed along with him, so happy to have his beloved pet back that he felt stupid for having even hesitated in the first place. Just as he was about to turn on the engine, he turned a last time to John, warmth spreading through his body at the sight of his best friend holding his dog. 

And then, John looked at him with a smile so bright it could rival the sun, and Paul was overwhelmed with the urge to caress his face and snog him senseless.

Oh God.

He was screwed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the lightest chapter I've ever written :D THANKS TO ALL OF YOU, SO MUCH  
@WhiteQueen02 I hope your flu is not too bad! And that this improved your spirits somehow :)  
@owlzilla I hope you're feeling better too! Thank you so so much again!


	28. Chapter 28

For Paul, the ride back was… embarrassing, to say the least.

His mind was reeling, and the fact that John was happily playing with the dog next to him only made things worse. He looked so goddamn… gorgeous. He did, there was no way around that. His long, unique nose was hypnotic, his pale neck showed off his smooth skin in a revolting way, and his delicate hands looked infinitely soft. Definitely attractive. When John laughed at Martha, Paul glanced at him again and his eyes just got glued to the sharp angle of his jaw. He suddenly realized he wanted to bite it. Jesus Christ. Since when did he notice blokes’ jaws?! And his lips… why did they suddenly look so appealing? What the fuck was going on? It was like a dam had been broken in his mind and suddenly all sorts of… obscene, crazy thoughts were flooding in. How had he gone so quickly from objectively finding his friend good-looking to wanting to kiss him and just… touch him?

It was surreal. He had never thought about a man like that before and he felt ashamed, dirty. He knew there was nothing wrong with homosexuality, he had had time to integrate that, but still, having these kinds of thoughts himself… it was very different. Drastically. It was so strange to realize his own vision of John had transformed into something else than strict friendship. Friends were not attracted to their friends, were they? Because how else could his name that urge? He had spent weeks reassuring himself about how their kiss in Tokyo had been a one-time confusion thing, and now… Now. He craved to do it again, his fingers tightening on the wheel and his vision blurring at the edges as he struggled not to just stare at John the whole time. As if his whole body had a mind on its own. He was going insane. That was it. His conversation with John about love and everything was messing with his head. He had spent so much time thinking about it and wondering what it all meant that he had just pushed himself into wanting _more_. 

But no, no. He was overreacting. He sort of wanted to kiss John, alright. It did not have to be such a big deal. He could just push it aside and wait for it to subside. It would probably disappear as soon as he would fall in love with a woman again anyway. He did not have to _act_ on it or anything. Would John even let him, if he did? After all, he had not attempted any sort of contact ever since Tokyo, far from it. If he knew what was going on in Paul’s mind, he would probably freak out. And there was no point wondering about it anyway. Nothing could be – would be happening, and that was it.

When he finally turned into his street, Paul’s mind was eased a little. He just had to find some excuse to get John to leave – he should have dropped him off at his house, but that seemed a bit too harsh – and just… not. The two men got out of the car and John kept Martha in his arms. Paul took the tiny bag of kibbles the lady had given him and led the way to his apartment, trying his hardest not to look at his friend. His hands were slightly shaking when he opened the door, which thankfully John did not seem to notice. They both went upstairs in silence, and Paul really hoped John did not feel the tension and stress emanating out of him. His skin was literally buzzing with the enormity of his discovery. Entering his apartment had never been such a relief before. It was familiar. Reassuring. He did not have lewd thoughts about his male friends in here.

“What’s her name?”

Paul turned around sharply. John was right behind him, bending over to put the puppy on the floor. His shirt slid a little over his back, revealing pale skin which Paul’s eyes were immediately drawn to. Oh God. What was happening to him?!

“She, uh… Martha,” He forced himself to answer. 

Even his own voice sounded weird to his ears now. But John ignored him and followed Martha to the couch, where she had frozen at the sight of Thisbe, still on the windowsill.

“Martha, meet Thisbe,” John said in a formal voice, grasping Martha’s paw to make her wave at the cat. “Thisbe, Martha.”

Paul felt his lips tugging to smile but fought against it. Was that actually funny or was he just acting like a lunatic again? Still squatting, John turned to him. His eyes were bright and joyful. He had not seemed that content in quite a while, especially with only Paul for company. Paul cleared his suddenly dry throat.

“So, you like her, I reckon?” He asked just to divert his own attention.

“Of course. Not quite sure why you decided to adopt a furry horse but she’s lovely, ain’t she?”

Paul approached him – at a reasonable distance – and plopped himself down to caress Martha too, who was trying to sniff Thisbe’s tail. The cat remained royally indifferent to her.

“I had a farm in Scotland, she loved it. She used to hide with the sheep at night,” Paul explained, smiling fondly at the memory.

He turned to John who was already watching him with a strange, almost dazed expression. 

“I can’t imagine you old,” He confessed after a moment. “I can just picture you with some vague wrinkles on your forehead or something.”

“I had more than vague wrinkles,” Paul chuckled.

“It’s crazy. You’ve lived a whole life,” John murmured, still staring at him.

Paul lowered his gaze, feeling shy all of a sudden. He found his words had died somewhere in his throat.

“It must be weird, living everything all over again,” John continued, still as quiet. His gaze was burning Paul’s neck. “I don’t know how I would react if I were you.”

“You wouldn’t disappear to France like a git, at least,” Paul chuckled drily.

A hand suddenly appeared on his bare arm, sending a shiver down his spine and making his heart beat faster. Even in such a moment his body was betraying him, Jesus!

“Considering the situation, I probably would have done way worse than that,” John told him with a lilt of both reassurance and self-deprecation to his voice. 

They both let silence fall upon them. Paul couldn’t lift his eyes off of John’s hand, so light on his wrist. He had beautiful hands. Just as Paul remembered them.

“You know, you have really soft skin for a geriatric.”

“Fuck off!” Paul laughed, finally finding the strength to shake John’s hand off.

John laughed too and stood up, allowing Paul to breathe a little better.

“What do I look like, then?” John suddenly asked.

Paul snapped his head up to him, frowning.

“What?”

“As an old man. Am I more than vaguely wrinkled too?” He chuckled.

An icy vice gripped Paul’s heart and crushed it in an instant.

“Um… The same. You look the same.”

John nodded, visibly satisfied with that answer. More than Paul himself could ever be.

When he drove John home later that day, Paul was starting to feel confusion and sadness seep into his every limb. He did not know what to do. He was in such a new and foreign territory that it felt like the whole world around him had changed, too. Trees looked taller, cars were noisier, the sun was brighter. Everything was… more. And Paul was lost. 

He decided that in the long week he had before leaving on tour again, he would try to see John as little as possible, if only to give himself some time to adjust to his new-found attraction. God, it was so weird. He was not sure he could ever get over it. So he just went on with his life, going to the odd interview, taking care of his pets, going out with Tara, once (which was an eerie experience he was not sure he was able to repeat again), and even spending a night at the theatre. He did not do much, was a lot less social than he used to be, but it was alright – even if he could not help but think about John all the time. His children and John. Stuck in his head on an eternal loop.

He was forced to see John though when Brian reminded him that they had an interview scheduled for the BBC. The situation was awkward for more reasons than one: the news of John and Cynthia’s break-up being not public yet (Paul did not dare ask more about it at this point), they were having it in their house in Kenwood. Paul did not know how or why Cynthia had agreed for them to still do it there. It was a mystery to him, but since going to Paul’s apartment would be even more complicated, they did not have much choice. It was cruel to realize Cynthia was still stuck in this, having to pretend everything was fine when her husband had left their home several months prior. She was just as lovely as ever, though, and seeing her only broke Paul’s heart. It was so unfair. The worst was that he mostly felt dirty, now, for having this new kind of… thoughts, about the love of her life. What would she think if she knew what was going on in Paul’s head…? Would she be as kind and understanding?

The interview went surprisingly well, though. If the BBC lads noticed the atmosphere was tense between the couple – and with Paul, too – they did not show it. And once they left, Paul was happy to spend some time with Julian in the garden while his parents were talking in the kitchen. Judging from the loud voices erupting from time to time, mostly John’s, it did not sound like a very pleasant conversation and Paul was happy not to be caught in the middle of it. Things were awkward enough already. He was helping Julian draw an elephant when John suddenly arrived from the house, looking pissed off.

“She’s such a fucking—“ He started angrily.

“John!” Paul cut him off loudly. 

John startled and turned to him, as if he had not fully realized he was not alone. Paul glared at him, and he saw John’s gaze travel to his son who was watching him, wide-eyed. His demeanour softened. He approached them and sat crossed-legged on the grass next to Julian, putting a surprisingly gentle hand on the child’s back.

“She doesn’t want to divorce. Brian doesn’t want me to divorce. Not yet, at least,” He explained with a much quieter voice. He was looking at Julian, still. “I feel like a puppet. Just here for everyone to play with.”

It was unusual for John to be so open, so candid about his feelings. Paul felt like the wrong word might blow all of it away. Did he feel like Paul was treating him like a puppet too, somewhere…?

“You’re not a puppet. It’s a complicated situation, sure, but… you’ll get through it,” He told him. “And you know that for Brian it’s more complicated than that. He’s just trying to protect you.”

John did not answer, simply watching Julian colour the ears of his elephant, indifferent to what the adults were talking about. John looked so vulnerable, so miserable right then and there, that Paul just wanted to engulf him in his arms and shoo his worries away.

“You need to stop surviving, Paul,” John suddenly told him with such fierceness in his voice Paul was frozen on place. “I’ve seen you, staying home all day long. Not talking to anyone for days. That’s not you. Unless old you has become boring, but I don’t believe that. You’re allowed to live your life, you know. You don’t have to just… repeat everything you remember for the sake of whatever you think the future is supposed to be like. Your past is in the past, you know? It’s the now that’s important. It’s still your life. You deserve to choose how to live it.” 

It was so sudden, so out of the blue that Paul could do nothing but to gape at his friend. John did not seem to expect an answer, though, and he just got up again, opening his arms to take Julian with him.

“Come on, little lad. It’s time for a bath, don’t you think? You stink.”

“No, you stink!” Julian giggled, wriggling in his father’s arm not unlike the way Martha had.

“How dare you?!” John gasped. 

Paul was smiling so hard at the sight his cheeks were beginning to ache. Father John was his favourite John, no doubt about that. He watched them pad back to the house, wondering how weird it was to wish he could just live with them.

After having left Martha and Thisbe to his neighbour/landlord (which was more heart-breaking than he thought it would be), Paul faced the reality of having to go on another Beatles tour. Even without the disaster of Manila or of the Jesus controversy, it had been funny to see that everyone had still agreed to make it the last one. The decision, this time, had been largely influenced by Pattie’s pregnancy and George’s unwavering desire to stay with her and the baby once they would be born. This time, Paul had not argued in favour of touring and had chosen to go on George’s side from the beginning. It had surprised everyone, including Paul himself, but he felt in his bones that this was the right decision. They could always go back to touring later, for real this time. Maybe things would be different if he was not so bull-headed about them. John was not wrong: he needed to decide for himself, not just because he felt compelled to. 

Falling right back into their habits, he was paired with John for the rooms. He did not fight it, realizing it would be stupid for several reasons: first, it would look weird and people would ask unwanted questions, second, it would hurt John, and third, he actually wanted to be paired with him. It was probably not the most reasonable decision, but he was not sure he cared. From the very first night though, it dawned on Paul how difficult exactly this was going to be. 

Because now that Paul… well, ‘saw’ John’s attractiveness, he saw it everywhere. In the way he talked so perceptively, in his laugh, in the way he scratched his ear when he was reading, in his belly when he stretched his arms, in how thick his thighs looked when he was sitting, in his dainty wrists, in his freaking nape. He felt like such a weirdo for staring at his friend’s nape.

The worst was probably when he was taking his shower. After the first time where Paul found himself blushing to his roots and growing uncomfortably hot when John came out of the bathroom with just a towel around his hips, he decided to avoid the situation as much as possible. Thus when John was going to the bathroom, Paul just went for a stroll through the hotel until enough time had passed to be sure John was clothed again, or even sleeping already. It was ridiculous, but he couldn’t bear the idea of John seeing him turn all bashful and stammering like an idiot. The good thing was, however weird his friend might have been in the past (and Paul was trying hard not to think of it as flirting because that would be just too much for him), he seemed to have completely stopped it and was back to a very normal, platonic and personal-space-respectful behaviour. He seemed a bit… off, at times, and Paul did not quite understand why that was. Paul would talk, or do something, and John would look at him with that new little smile, so soft, before schooling his face into a cold mask of indifference. Perhaps he was still weirded out by their kiss in Tokyo, or he thought Paul was being strange or disgusting, or maybe he too was stuck in a sort of longing state. Longing for what, it was not clear, but Paul sure was. Longing. 

So all in all, it was very difficult, but Paul managed to look relatively normal and not like a bloody pervert. 

The concerts were a nice distraction from his new-found lust. They were doing stadiums, and it was just as overwhelming as in his memories. The crowd, the lights, the screaming, it was too much and yet Paul liked it. It was unique, being able to relive his peak years, and he was set on letting himself enjoy it, the good and the bad alike. If one thing, it only strengthened his memory by creating new details, new sights, new feelings. He was not re-living it: he was living it fully, and things were going rather well.

Until three shots exploded loudly in the Cleveland stadium when they were in the middle of “Nowhere Man”.

Paul felt his heart stop, panic gripping him so quick he was actually blind for a few seconds. _Not John, not again, please not John_… When he finally got his vision back, cold sweat was dripping on his neck and he was shaking like a leaf. He could faintly hear the others had kept playing, but he was frozen in place. His eyes searched frantically over the stage until they met almond-shaped ones staring right back at him. He was still so high on fear hormones that he could not feel his own arms and feet, his gaze travelling all over John’s body to make sure there was no blood on him, no gaping hole. 

There wasn’t. He was alive. He was alright. Paul's heart was so loud it felt like it was going to burst out of his chest.

“Are you okay?” A loud voice asked in his ear. 

Paul startled and turned to George, who was watching him with a worried frown and was, by some miracle, still playing. Paul nodded numbly, unable to force a smile, and tried to tune in to what was going on to catch up with the song. He did not quite know how he was able to push through the rest of the concert, but it seemed like in a blink it was over, and they were all bowing to the carefree crowd and led back inside the stadium’s offices.

“They caught the men, they think they were Filipino. Maybe they were pissed off about the cancelled shows, I don’t know,” Brian explained to them when they were all gathered in the hotel lounge, later. He looked a bit shook. “They were just Cherry bombs, turns out.”

Now that the initial shock had somewhat ebbed away, Paul was furious. It made no sense. How could this have happened, still? After everything he’d done to make sure everything would go alright this time… It was like fate was laughing at him and giving him the middle finder. You think you can make things right? Well, there you go, fucker! It was so unfair he wanted to scream. 

“I thought someone had fired at us,” Ringo said with a shiver, standing in the middle of the small room with a bottle of water in one hand and a spliff in the other. 

“Me too, did you see, we all checked each other out?” George added, turning wide eyes to the others, i.e. Brian, Neil and Mal. “It was so loud!”

“Did they really throw them on stage or was it just…?” John piped in, looking freaked out too.

“It seems like they did, yeah,” Mal answered.

“That’s insane,” Neil added, gaze lost in the void. “What’s even the point of doing that?”

“If they wanted to scare us, they made their point,” Ringo chuckled mirthlessly.

Everyone agreed with that, and Paul kept quiet, feeling a rage that would not exactly fit the situation in the others’ eyes. But mostly, he realized he was terrorized. Did that mean that nothing he could do could change anything? Were things bound to happen the way they had in his past…? It was frightening, to think that his actions did not matter. That there might be something else deciding for their fate. That no matter how hard he was trying to live things according to his new wisdom and knowledge, things would just go to shit again. They would all slowly grow apart, the band would explode, and he would fall into depression. And John would die. 

When he went to bed that night, he could not shake the ghastly image of a bloody John, spread at his feet, dying. And himself, watching in silent horror, unable to do anything to save him.

Paul woke up abruptly, sweaty and shaking to his core. The nightmare was already disappearing from his mind, but its impression lasted and made him feel sick and scared. Struggling to regulate his breathing, he let his eyes wander around the room and without surprise, they stopped on his friend. Something told him he had been the protagonist of his nightmare.

John was sleeping peacefully, turned towards the door and back to Paul. His chest was rising slowly, and Paul tried to follow its rhythm to calm the beating of his anxious heart. John was alive. He was fine. He kept repeating it in his mind, like a mantra.

Paul felt the urge to touch him, to feel his heart, to have the absolute certainty that he was alright. Without even realizing it, he got up from his bed and slowly approached the other’s bed. There was a little gap behind John’s bent legs and Paul sat in it, careful not to crush him. He couldn’t stop observing him, scared that if he closed his eyes even for a second, he would somehow disappear. The thought of losing him was unbearable. What was Paul doing? John was there, right in front of him. They were close, so close. Would it really destroy everything to want… more? Was he allowed to? Maybe that was why he had been sent back here. To be with John again, perhaps in more ways than before. Weirdly, the thought did not seem so scary when John was breathing softly next to him.

John shuffled in his sleep and turned on his back, his legs still bent on the side. He rubbed his eye with a heavy hand, sign that he was slowly waking up. Paul should have bolted back to his bed before it was too late, before John saw him. Pretend everything was normal. But he was tired of pretending. Tired of being scared.

As expected, John opened sleepy eyes that slowly focused on Paul. Strangely enough, he did not look surprised to see him there, watching him sleep like a creep. As if there was nothing weird about it all.

“Did I wake you?” Paul whispered gently. 

John shook his head, still staring at him. He got a little straighter on the bed and Paul boldly found his hand to squeeze it gently, allowing himself to caress his knuckles, his wrist, the white skin hidden under it. John was just looking at him, and Paul could not quite explain the calm that was taking over both of them. He continued exploring John’s arm with his fingers, slowly, up to his collarbone and over his shirt to his steady but fast-beating heart. He found he could not stop touching him. This was a sign, wasn’t it? He raised his head and crossed John’s gaze again. John was quiet and understandably cautious, waiting to see what Paul would do next. But he was also strangely open, trusting. Did he know? Did he really feel the same pull, somehow? They probably both had an idea of where this was going, and Paul realized with a startling clarity that he wanted it.

He glanced slowly at John’s lips, making sure that John knew what he was going to do and was okay with it. And the tiny, so tiny smile John gave him in return was all the confirmation he needed.

So forcing himself to shut his fears out, Paul leant forward, breathing the same air as John and feeling every hair on his body stand up, electrified. He felt so much like a thirteen year old about to have his first kiss that it was ridiculous. It was both terrifying and a bit amazing. When their lips finally touched, he couldn’t help the relieved sigh that came out of him, and that only prompted John to put a hand on his neck and bring him closer to him. Paul went so willingly that he nearly fell over John, who had not quite anticipated having Paul’s whole weight over him so quick and chuckled when they had to catch themselves before falling backwards.

As soon as they stabilized themselves, John kissed him again, deeper and more urgent. His hands got hold of Paul’s hair and pulled on it, and Paul would have winced if it hadn’t lit up a spark of arousal in his belly. Jesus Christ. God, he _really_ wanted it, didn’t he? This wasn’t some “I’m drunk and horny whoever you are let’s do it” or “I’m lonely and you’re kind please kiss me” or a “you’re the closest thing I have to a lover and my body can pretend you’re a woman” situation. It was just… John. And he wanted him.

Paul welcomed John’s curious tongue in and couldn’t hold a moan, which apparently only drove John crazier. Throwing caution to the wind, Paul let his instincts take over and threw a leg over John’s own pyjama-clad legs, practically dropping into his lap, and he was both shocked and sort of flattered to notice that his friend was actually hard. There was no faking it, was there? Paul was far from feeling confident enough to do anything about it, but it was thrilling, to have the proof that John wanted him too. John’s hand moved to his cheek again and he tilted his head so softly that Paul was touched by how endearing he was. But that short moment of sweetness was soon replaced by a sudden hunger on both sides, as if they couldn’t get enough – which for Paul, astonishingly, was the case. He felt like a kid again. All his experience with women had never prepared him for this because this was… unknown. The big leap. He had never dreamt of it, had never masturbated to it or anything. If he’d known what it felt like, maybe he would have.

After a good moment of snogging, John leant back, struggling to find his breath back. His cheeks were red and his eyes glossy. He looked amazing. Paul was probably in the same state, staring at John’s face and reeling from his discovery. He literally couldn’t believe it.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” He breathed out quietly, not able to tear his eyes from John’s mouth. 

Christ, his mouth. How even…?! When he finally looked up to John’s eyes, there was such exaltation there that he couldn’t help but mirror his bashful smile. Both of them started chuckling embarrassedly. 

“We need to sleep,” Paul whispered, still chuckling.

“Yeah,” John confirmed, lips parted and his eyes fluttering between Paul’s lips and his eyes.

So, just because he could – he could, right? – Paul leant forward again and caught John’s lower lip between his teeth, kissing him again with all the sensuality he could muster. Then, before he could do anything stupid, he got up in a flash and went back to his bed, snuggling under the covers. When he turned to look at John, the other was still staring at him, a glint of both amusement and mostly frustration in his eyes.

“You bastard,” He murmured with a disbelieving grimace.

Paul let out a short laugh, enjoying this way more than he should.

“Good night,” He retorted, turning his back to John and feeling his heart exploding in his ears.

Well.

Looked like he really did not care anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you feel like saying hi or yelling at me for all the angst and pining, you can find me there:
> 
> purechocolade.tumblr.com
> 
> (don't yell at me though, please. I'm fragile)


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I think I love all of you.

So. He had done _that_.

As he lied wide awake on his bed but still pretending to be asleep, he could hear John groaning at the shrill sound of the alarm clock. Paul hadn’t needed it. He had been awake and questioning his whole life for hours already. Now that he was calm and rested, he could see the situation with more clarity than the night before. Not that it made it less confusing, nor surreal. But the _enormity_ of it was clearer. He also knew now that trying to understand why was pointless; if attraction could be logically explained, they would have known by now. So he did not know how, or why, or why now, and would probably never know. For now, he had to accept that. The only thing he was sure of was that if the occasion presented itself, he would do it again. And even though he hated knowing it, he knew he would be happy to. And that scared him shitless.

The funny thing was that now that he had sort of accepted it, the fact that John was _a fucking man_ seemed bigger, scarier and more shameful. He felt like his whole self had been ripped inside out, and he felt even more ashamed for feeling like that. Not only was he a poor excuse of a queer, but he was homophobic about it too. Now that confusion was mostly out of the way, self-disgust and shock at his own desires took much more space. He tried to reason with himself, to accept them for something acceptable, but the nausea in his belly was only getting stronger the more he thought about it. 

When he finally heard John closing the door of the bathroom, Paul got up and went to his suitcase to dress. How was he supposed to behave now? Were they still friends, or was that certainty gone too? He hoped they were, but he also felt like this whole thing was an insult to their friendship, to all the years of trust between them. It was stupid, he knew that. He hadn’t forced John to do anything, and judging by his friend’s reactions the night before, he had been on board with it. But still. What if it was just a whim, a short fruitless fling? Would their friendship survive it? Thinking about their new promiscuity made him question his whole relationship with John, in his past too. _That_ would have never happened to past 1966 Paul. There was not a single doubt about that. Even if they had masturbated together a couple of times, it would have never gone as far as kissing and… and, just, the actual rubbing-thing. What would past older John think of it? Had old John wanted it at some point in their relationship, or was it something that had appeared since Paul had travelled back in time? 

In a way, he hoped it was something new for John too, because he couldn’t help but think that if old John had wanted it too, somehow, his whole friendship with him had been sort of a lie. No, that was not even true, if he was being honest with himself. What was scary about thinking old John could have wanted it was that maybe Paul had hurt him more than he knew. Maybe Paul had ruined something… else, between them. Maybe… maybe his relationship with old John up to his death could have been different, and he had been too blind (or even too stupid) to see it. After all, that first conversation about love and connections in India had been sort of clear in its own way, and Paul had just not seen it. Or chose not to see it. He didn’t even know anymore.

The situation was unbearable to imagine. It was heart-breaking either way, because if John had indeed wanted him at some point, and Paul had just not known about it, it meant John had been alone in it. Probably angry, confused. Disgusted with himself, if Paul guessed right. Not about the fact that Paul was a man, because Paul knew that John was much smarter and more open about it than he was, but because he was _Paul_, and the two of them always had been different. Special. And wanting someone who would never want you back would drive anyone insane. Would make anyone feel like a masochist. Like an idiot.

But if he had wanted Paul and if Paul _had_ learnt about it, if he had really understood it, it would not have gone the way it was going now anyway. Nothing would have happened between them because Paul had been married the whole time with the love of his life. Paul had been so in love with Linda he just knew nothing would have made him want someone else. He was not sure how he would have reacted but something told him it would not have gone well. It would have only led to resentment, awkwardness, incredulity. Anger, too, perhaps. Was that why John had been so cold to Linda, in the beginning…? Or did it have nothing to do with it? Not knowing drove him crazy.

He was lost, disoriented but also angry. Angry for being so stupid and clueless. It was even more frustrating to realize that he would never know the truth, because even if he somehow went back to 2019 (and he had absolutely no hope about that), John would still be dead and the answers buried with him. So maybe his whole relationship with John had not been what he thought it was, not to John anyway, and he would never know it for sure. 

Shaking his worries away, he quickly dressed and in less than a minute he was ready. Since he was not ready yet to face John – and mostly, had not decided yet what behaviour to take – he decided to leave the room before his friend came out of the bathroom and went quickly to the dining room of the hotel for breakfast. Perhaps there was no point thinking about their past selves. What mattered was the present, wasn’t it? And in the present, he wanted John and John seemed to want him back. It was shocking, surreal, and risky. It made no sense. But it was true nevertheless, and he just had to deal with it.

Paul was eating his toast in silence, waiting for his burning tea to cool off and listening to George and Mal’s very deep conversation about the American concept of biscuits in front of him (“Why the hell is it all spongy?”). They were in a secluded corner of the hotel’s dining room, and he could see Brian and Ringo laughing together next to the coffee machine a little further. Unsurprisingly, Brian seemed to have finished eating already and was all ready to start the day. Paul could not help but throw regular glances at the doors, expecting John to arrive any minute. It was only 9am, but Paul was already tired, his nausea not quite gone yet, and was just waiting for the adrenaline of the representation to kick in, even if it would not arrive until much later in the day. Still, one could hope.

When someone put a tray next to him he looked up with sleepy eyes and Ringo gave him a smile in return. The tiny interaction diverted his attention and suddenly John was here too, sitting next to Ringo. Paul turned his head to him and when their eyes locked, neither moved. It felt to Paul like time had stopped: it could have been two seconds or two hours until John smiled tightly and diverted his eyes to Mal.

“Ah, there you are lads,” Mal said, reading a newspaper he had folded next to his cup of tea. “They’re talking about the album.”

“So, did they like it?” Ringo asked, buttering his toast.

Mal didn’t answer right away, his eyes scanning the article. Paul enjoyed the pause to observe George pulling a face as he was nibbling on an American biscuit.

“Oh it’s good, don’t worry,” Mal chuckled. Then, reading out loud: “’_Revolver_ is a revolutionary record, just as important to the expansion of pop as was _Rubber Soul_’… They love ‘Eleanor Rigby’…” At that, Ringo nudged Paul with a smile. “They really dig the first side. Blabla… ‘The album succeeds in the feat of presenting a great variety of sounds and orientations, and yet without having a single track jarring from the rest. In conclusion, it is a musical creation of exceptional excellence that will no doubt stay in the records as a stepping stone in pop music’…”

“Damn right it will,” John piped in. 

Paul did not dare look at him despite his strong urge to, and rather kept his eyes focused on Mal.

“They say ‘All Things Must Pass’ is ‘magisterial’ too, blimey…”

“Let me see,” George asks.

He was frowning, but Paul could spot a light blush on his cheeks anyway. The sight warmed his soul a little. It was incredibly reassuring to hear that critics still loved the album despite the few changes from the one in his past. They were minor, all in all, but there were still new songs on it: ‘All Things Must Pass’, Paul and George’s and John and Paul’s recent one, which had ended up replacing two of Paul’s old ones and one of John’s, if his memory was correct. He had been quite nervous about it, so it was marvellous to see it had been worth it, if only for the obvious pride on George’s face as he was reading the article. Paul felt a new wave of giddy excitement go through him. This was good, very good. He still had it. _I can still be a Beatle_, he thought as he sipped his tea slowly not to get burnt.

“When do we need to leave?” John asked Mal.

Mal checked his watch. When Ringo leant forward to read the article (despite it being upside down for him), Paul could not stop his eyes from travelling to John. He was bringing a huge bite of pancake to his mouth and looking at Mal.

“A little less than an hour. Neil’s already getting the instruments, I need to join him,” Mal answered, getting up as he spoke. “Have you packed yet?”

“Not yet, I need to go back up,” John answered with difficulty, his mouth clearly too full. 

It should have been disgusting, and Paul vaguely thought than in another lifetime he would have found it such, but right then he only found it endearing. God, how could he fancy him even with jam on his chin?! John turned his head and caught him staring, and if anything, the mischievous spark that appeared in his eyes as he was chewing was not a good sign. Paul looked away abruptly, feeling his neck get hot.

“Alright, let’s go then,” Ringo said as he was gathering his waste on his plate and getting up.

“Yeah, I’m coming,” Paul replied, though his tea was still fuming and he hated to let it go to waste.

George hummed in approval and turned on his chair to get up as well, his eyes still glued to the article. Mal had already left, so there was only the four of them. On a whim, Paul drank the last of his tea, ignoring how it was still burning his throat. He winced when he set it the cup down though, and a chuckle told him John was finding it very amusing. Ringo and George were already heading to the doors.

“Shut up,” He told John, frowning not to let himself smile and realizing it was the first words he had addressed to his friend since their heated make-out session.

“I didn’t say anything,” John countered way too happily.

Paul just glared at him, to which John answered with a shit-eating grin. Paul saw that John hadn’t finished the pancake on his plate, but when he got up and placed his chair back neatly under the table, he heard his friend’s chair scraping the floor loudly too. So they were going to leave the room… together? And pass in front of the other patrons of the hotel? What if they saw? What if they _understood_? He suddenly found it hard to swallow, feeling exaggeratingly nervous. It was stupid. Of course no one would _understand_ just by looking at them walk together. But what if they looked suspicious? If John could pick up his embarrassment, could someone else do too, and then deduce something wasn’t right between them? He started walking mechanically to the door, ignoring how close John was behind him. He was not _that_ close, but. Still. To Paul, he felt like he was breathing down his neck. He wasn’t, of course, but…

When Paul finally reached the lift, John still on his trail, and noticed the hallway was otherwise empty, another fact exploded to his face: they were going to be _alone_ in the lift. John stopped next to him, still not saying a word. Paul ignored him and pushed repeatedly on the call button. He crossed his arms not to let his fidgeting fingers betray him. The lift arrived with a ‘ting’ and they both entered. Without surprise, it was empty. Paul watched the doors close slowly, so slowly, feeling like he was getting trapped in hell with the forbidden fruit, who was casually leaning against the back of the cubicle. Standing in the other corner of the lift, Paul stared stubbornly at the numbers above the doors.

“You’re not even going to look at me, then?”

Paul startled slightly and hesitated for a second, his nervousness reaching new heights. These things were way harder when they were not in the dark of their room. But, deciding he would not let it become awkward or worse, he turned to John. John was observing him, blank-faced but still with a glint of mischief in his eyes. Not mad at him, then.

“No, I’m… I’m looking at you. Look,” He answered unhelpfully.

They kept looking at each other, as if each was daring the other to look away last. And Paul was fine with just looking at him, really. A grin appeared on John’s lovely face.

“I see that,” He said.

Paul waited but he did not say anything more. The lift arrived at their floor with a new ‘ting’ and Paul turned to the door, relieved. Just before the doors opened though, he felt a light kiss on his nape that sent a shiver through his whole body. 

“I’m looking at you too,” John whispered in his neck before swiftly leaving the lift. 

It was only when the doors closed again that Paul realized he was supposed to move at some point.

The day went on without further ‘incident’. Paul and John packed their things in silence, and if John still told the usual odd joke, he made no move on Paul, nor made any suggestive comment about anything. It was almost as if Paul had dreamed that kiss in the lift, but the way the skin of his nape was burning for what felt like hours afterwards proved he hadn’t. On the plane he was sitting next to George and Paul was happy to chat with him, noticing his own spirits had considerably lightened compared to the previous days, or even the previous months. He could almost turn off his swirling brain and just enjoy the moment. It was nice to be able to get excited by things again. 

The concert of that night was a big one: Washington, more than 30,000 people and all of them screaming their heads off. They were all a bit nervous on stage at the beginning of the gig, the cherry bombs still very much present in their minds, but after a while, they all fell right back into the buzz of it. Paul shared the mic with John on several songs, and each time it only got harder not to stare at John for the whole duration of the song. Seeing John like that, all sweaty hair and sweaty face, smiling hard and shaking with the music, did something to his belly. They locked gaze at multiple times, sharing delighted looks and laughing together at the mic that kept falling down, and Paul prayed nobody could see his half-boner. That was a new worry he could have lived without, but being close to John and seeing him this happy was definitely worth it. 

They were all running in the corridors of the stadium, still elated and buzzing from the show. The four of them were laughing over silly things and pushing one another, and it was the first time that Paul completely felt like he was 24 again. He was not the odd fourth piece, the witness behind a glass observing his friends and bandmates go on with their lives as if everything was right in the world. He was truly with them. 

As they were entering the dressing room, Paul excused himself to go to the bathroom, feeling the itch to clean his hands properly after having manipulated the mic for the whole concert. When he entered the bathroom – which was thankfully empty and quiet, a nice change after the thirty minutes of screaming – Paul went to the sink, opening the water and cupping some water in his hands to splash his too hot face. He was both tired and still excited, not ready to go back to the noise of the dressing room just yet. 

A click behind him burst his bubble of thoughts.

When Paul turned around, John was right there, sweaty and breathing hard from having apparently run. He slowly closed the door shut behind his back. The intensity of his stare sent a shiver down Paul’s spine; though of anxiety or anticipation, he was not sure. But he did not have long to ponder over it as in a few strides John came over, slid a hand on his neck and kissed him with force. Paul gasped, more than astonished, but his body immediately reacted and he found himself hungrily kissing back, as if it had only been waiting for it. Maybe he had.

He was vaguely aware of John slipping his other hand on his waist to bring him impossibly closer to him, and was ashamed to realize he had no control left whatsoever when a loud moan came out of him. Which made John startle and ever so slightly pull back for a second to stare at him with something that startlingly resembled awe, his hand coming to caress Paul’s lips and cheekbone.

“God. You have no idea,” He cryptically whispered while shaking his head.

Paul did not know what he meant but mirrored the gesture anyway, his gaze unable to leave John’s shiny lips. He fleetingly wondered what the probabilities of someone walking in on them were, but seeing the fire suddenly burning in his lower belly, he mostly realized that he did not care. Grasping John’s shirt with full hands, he tilted his head to kiss him again and wanted to yell his approval when the other man kissed him back instantly. John pushed him even more against the sink, so close Paul could feel every muscle of his thighs clenching. Paul felt like he was boiling, his breath coming in short puffs when John started nipping at his chin, his neck, his collarbones. Paul vaguely registered that John’s hands were travelling lower and lower over his body but he did not find the force in him to be shocked enough to stop him. Well, he was shocked for sure, but he did not actually want to stop him. He was also not surprised at all to notice he was getting fully hard – just like John was, pressing against his lower body. One of John’s hand reached to cup Paul’s bottom and the other was clasped in a bruising grasp on Paul’s hip. The heat emanating between the both of them was unbelievable. Paul’s skin was burning everywhere their bodies were touching even though _they were still wearing their fucking clothes_. Paul grasped John’s back even harder, his lips almost hurting by now but he didn’t care. He didn’t want to let go of this.

The noise of steps down the hallway decided for them, though. John stepped back brutally, glancing to the door and rushing to open a tap and put his hands under it with a blank face. It had all happened so fast that Paul was left watching him, dumbfounded, until John realized he had not moved from his spot.

“Fuck Paul, move! You want to go to jail or what?!” He urgently whispered at him, his eyes widened in fear.

Paul finally snapped and rushed into a cabin, closing the latch right when the door of the bathroom opened. The man saluted John and Paul could see his heavy feet walking to the urinals. A few seconds later, the tap was turned off and John was apparently leaving the bathroom. Thankfully, the man was quick at doing his business: soon enough he was out of the bathroom as well, and Paul finally let out the breath he’d been holding. 

It was a shock, was the thing. He knew homosexuality was still illegal, but somehow it hadn’t truly dawned on him that it was _real_. That he could be arrested and sent to prison for it – both of them. This was the real world he was living in, not some vague portrait of the past. He was literally breaking the law and thus endangering John’s life. And his own, accessorily. If anyone learned about this, they would be mocked, threatened, ostracized. Not by everyone, hopefully, but a vast majority still. And by the authorities. In this day and time, it would truly destroy their careers. 

But as the extent of the situation dawned on him, bringing in a new layer of fear and stress, there was a new sentiment emerging in him as well. Paul was coming from a time where homosexuality was finally seen as normal, as alright. At least by most people. That knowledge had safely grown in him with time and he knew he was _allowed_ to feel it, and to act on it. But John didn’t. As far as John knew, homosexuality was illegal and there was no insurance that views on queers would ever change. And yet, he was still taking this huge risk with Paul. Paul knew John was brave, but his admiration for the man suddenly blossomed to new heights. 

He was so fucking brave he sort of wanted to give him the whole world.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are all incredible, thank you so much. I meant for this chapter to be longer originally, but, oh well. It the first time I found a chapter hard to write, so I hope it doesn't mean it's shit!

Paul was standing in front of the door of the dressing room and he could not bring himself to move. His heart was beating in his ears and his hands were sweaty. Thoughts were still swirling in his head, creating a massive headache of John, prison, his family, concerts, kisses, threats, touches. It had to have been ten minutes at most since he’d left the other guys to go to the bathroom, but it felt like it had been hours. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and finally opened the door. 

The problem with stadiums was that since they were not used to having musicians – a.k.a. smaller groups of people than sports teams – they always gave them the tiniest dressing rooms they could find. And with Paul’s trouble to think about something other than _John_ and how they were freaking _breaking the law_, finding himself nose to nose with a nearly shirtless version of him the second he entered the room did not help. _At all_. They froze at each other for a second until Brian’s voice made them both startle by its unusual loudness. 

“Come on lads, hurry, please!” He claimed, rubbing his forehead with two fingers, looking like he was at the end of his rope. “No Paul, don’t sit down, please, I’m trying to get them to get up.”

A quick look around the room told Paul Brian’s weariness was justified: for some reason, there were snacks and cigarettes everywhere, the smell of pot was nearly suffocating, Neil was trying to pick up each item of clothing that had somehow been discarded on every piece of furniture, someone had put chairs upside down in the middle of the room, Ringo was walking around bare feet with a cig in his hand and George was calmly eating a banana and still had his guitar on his lap despite Mal’s attempts to take it off him. And John, in the middle of it all, was simply finishing to unbutton his shirt, undisturbed.

So Paul just obeyed and spun dramatically on his heels to stand nicely next to the door. John chuckled at him and he tried very hard not to blush over it. And to look everywhere but at the visible skin of John’s more and more bare torso.

“George, just give the guitar to Mal. We’re late.”

“We’re always late anyway,” George drawled out with heavy-lidded eyes.

“Did you attach it to your vest?!” Mal asked George incredulously when he couldn’t get the guitar strap off over his head, to which the younger lad only answered with a vaguely uninterested look.

“I can’t find my shoe?” Ringo asked, zigzagging between everyone, his eyes glued to the floor. “Neil, have you seen my right shoe?”

“Uh…”

Neil, always helpful, started looking around too but his arms were so full of clothes he kept losing ties in the process. Paul felt John’s gaze on him but he avoided it, feeling way too awkward with everyone else around them (and he was pretty sure his erection was ready to come back full force any second)

“Seriously, what’s happening right now? The bus is waiting, we should be on it already…” Brian added, shaking his head. “John, what are you doing? Why are you undressing?”

“I was hot,” John shrugged, the face of innocence (even though Paul knew he was everything but).

“Put your shirt back on, please.”

“But…”

“Found it!” Neil exclaimed happily with the infamous shoe in hand.

Ringo and George looked up and started cheering, which made Paul laugh. For an instant, he was practically certain John’s eyes were on him. Ringo took the shoe and joyfully started tying his shoelaces.

“You can change in the bus,” Brian told John, looking like he was barely holding a sigh in. Then, looking at everyone else. “Come on, I’m serious! Let’s go!”

Brian opened the door and put a hand on Paul’s shoulder to guide him through it, just as Mal finally convinced George to just take his vest off too since for some reason the guitar strap was stuck to it.

“Alright, I’m coming, I’m coming,” George mumbled with a grin, raising his hands in defence and still holding his half-eaten banana.

Brian let go of Paul’s shoulder but Paul just stayed in the arch of the door, too amused by the situation to lose a second of it. When Ringo joined him at the door, Paul looked at his friend’s feet and felt the weird urge to take out his camera and take a picture of it, of the whole room, of his friends, of their spirits right at that moment. But he didn’t. Instead, he simply looked up to Ringo.

“Rich. Your left foot,” He chuckled.

Ringo looked down and noticed his left foot was still bare. George arrived next to them and looked down too, a laugh bubbling out of him.

“Shit,” Ringo simply said, without moving. “Oh, well.”

“If Rich can walk around with one shoe, why can’t I go shirtless?”

“John, for the love of God…!”

Yeah. Paul really had missed them.

Paul was alone and dozing off in the back of the bus, nestled between two cushions with a blanket on top in such a way that he was practically hidden from view, only his feet and the top of his head visible. The exhaustion from the day had finally taken the best of him, especially seeing how early he had woken that morning, and he felt a bit shivery despite the heat of the American summer. He was so scared at the idea that someone could somehow know just by looking at him that all day long – and even more since the bathroom incident – he had spent a lot of energy minding his every movement and being careful to look as normal as possible. In a way, it was almost like he was living his first weeks in the past all over again: second-guessing everything he was doing, feeling like he was not acting the way he was supposed to, being distant in fear of saying the wrong thing. He was probably being a little too distant, but it was hard to behave normally when all his bearings were blurred like that. Although apparently, he was paranoid for nothing since nobody had said anything yet. And John had not attempted anything since the bathroom incident either. Being almost caught in action had probably scared him just as much as it had Paul, in the end. 

So now Paul was happy to just tune out the rest of the world – i.e. John and the lads – and just use the travel time to rest and gather himself. It was also nice not to have his lower region on alert anymore. It had been so long since he had been aroused like that for such an extended period of time (albeit not at an equal intensity the whole time) that he felt psychologically tired. He had forgotten how it was to have a young, and very… competent body like that. He buried his head deeper into one of the cushion, enjoying its much-appreciated softness (one thing he had noticed was that fabrics were much softer and plusher in the future, so finding a cushion that matched his new standards was a feat in itself).

The bench seat he was huddled on dipped under someone else’s weight but Paul did not react, feeling sleep tugging at his mind already. The person stayed silent too, and Paul vaguely thought that if it had been John, he would have probably cracked a joke about how Paul was such a grandpa or something. Paul was nearly asleep when a quiet voice rose next to him.

“I wish we’d arrived at the hotel already.”

Paul popped his head out of the cushions and turned sleepy eyes to the owner of the voice. John was sitting with his arms encircling his bent legs, a cigarette hanging from his delicate fingers. He was not looking at Paul, his gaze lost in the void, looking a bit tired, and one of his legs was bouncing nervously. They were alone since the others were still gathered at the front of the bus, their chatter a lulling melody in the background. It took Paul a couple of seconds to process his words. 

“We’re half-way there, I think,” He answered slowly. “I can’t wait for my bed either.”

John turned to him and Paul forced himself to hold his gaze despite his embarrassment, trying not to stare at him with heart-eyes like some bloody schoolgirl with a crush. There was an emotion in John’s eyes that he could not quite decipher. Was he starting to regret…? Was he about to tell Paul they should just forget everything and go on like nothing ever happened? Paul swallowed at the thought, realizing he did not know if he would be able to do that. 

When someone shouted a bit further in the bus, John turned to the sound and Paul enjoyed the occasion to observe his neat profile. Once again in a very short span of days, he was amazed not to have really seen sooner how beautiful and lovely he was. 

“I’m not sleepy, though,” John suddenly said in a considerably lower voice, still not looking at Paul. 

Paul felt like his face was simultaneously paling and deeply blushing. It was not like him to react like a prude, but it seemed like John just kept shattering every certainty he had about himself, one at a time. Paul glanced nervously at the others, even though they were way too far to hear anything, and swallowed audibly, his throat having become suddenly very dry. John’s muscles were tight, his jaw was squared, his fingers were quivering. The skin of his neck was pulsating, looking obscenely smooth. There was a tension emanating from him that was so palpable Paul could almost see it. And as a consequence, Paul felt like he was about to vibrate out of his skin.

“I mean, unless you’d rather sleep,” John continued when Paul didn’t answer, sounding slightly less confident now and taking a drag of his cigarette.

Paul’s mind was exploding, but he was also weirdly calm. He knew. So he stared at John until his friend finally looked back.

“No,” He simply said. Then, with a bit more force. “I’m not _that_ sleepy either.”

John’s gaze was so deep and penetrating Paul felt naked under his scrutiny but he remained as confident-looking as possible. Then, John raised lightly one eyebrow and Paul could barely detect the ghost of a smile on his lips. John took another drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke out slowly. 

“Alright, then.”

And with that, he got up and left. Paul could only stare at the now empty space, feeling too tight in his pants.

About two hours later, the bus finally arrived at the hotel and Paul was throbbing with anticipation. He had had so much time on the bus to think about what was to come – even though he only had a very vague idea of it – that he was pretty much a mess: sheer terror in his mind, deep disgust in his stomach and aching desire in the rest of his body. They were going to do… something. They had freaking _planned_ it, basically. It was real, and imminent. Yet he was so fucking nervous he was not sure he would actually be able to do anything else than ignore everyone and bury himself straight into his bed. 

They all got out of the bus, stretching their sore limbs, chatting quietly now that the buzz from the show had completely vanished. It was late, and thankfully only a couple of fans were loitering in the hopes of seeing them so they were easy to avoid as they were waiting for Brian and Mal to get their room keys. The journey to their rooms seemed interminable to Paul, who glanced at John once in a while only to be more and more surprised by how eerily calm and _normal_ he seemed about it all. In comparison, Paul felt like a wreck.

Brian and Mal, who were leading their little procession, stopped and turned to distribute the keys to their chambers. Everyone was carrying their own luggage with their vest on their arms, the heat of August leaving them all sweaty, slow and tired.

“So, we have the numbers 203 and 205 for you,” Brian read on the keys as he was giving them out to Ringo and Paul. “And 208 and 209 for us.”

“Good night lads!” Neil claimed with a wave, following Mal who was already going to their shared room.

“Nighty night,” George yawned as an answer, whereas Ringo was already walking backwards down the corridor and waving to the rest of them.

Paul did not answer, his voice stuck somewhere in his throat. George, John and he walked down the corridor behind Ringo and when they arrived in front of the 205 Paul stopped, feeling John stop too.

“Sweet dreams Georgie boy,” John said in a funny voice, pinching George’s cheek. 

“Fuck off,” George laughed as he pushed his hand off.

Paul chuckled and opened the door with slightly shaky hands, watching his bandmate disappear into the 203 room behind Ringo. He entered his as well, ignoring the heat from John’s body right behind him, and went straight to the furthest bed to put his suitcase down next to it. The room was classical for a rather luxurious hotel: two twin beds, light orange wallpaper, a typical 1960s décor, ostentatious psychedelic paintings on the walls, a plant in a corner, a fancy TV in another. Paul was still as surprised to see that style again. It looked like it belonged in a museum.

A heavy noise behind him made Paul turn in a flash towards John, so fast he nearly lost his balance. John had set his suitcase down and was now fiddling with the long leaves of the plant, observing them intently as if they were particularly interesting – or as if he was trying to cave holes into them by the sheer intensity of his gaze. God, he was so obviously nervous. He looked pretty much as distressed as Paul felt. Why were they doing this to themselves? This was all so painful, so embarrassing. Sex was not supposed to be that painful, was it? And what if someone heard them, called the cops on them?Could Paul maybe just, stop all of it…? Call the whole... _thing_, off?

Paul approached him slowly, trying not to spook him. He then cleared his throat and raked a hand through his hair, feeling John’s gaze snap to him.

“So,” He started, his voice hoarser than expected from not having spoken for so long. “Maybe we could just—“

But he didn’t have time to finish that John was on him, kissing him hard. Paul was so caught off-guard that he nearly fell backwards, but John’s strong hands were gripping his shoulder and neck and maintaining him right there against him. It took another few seconds for Paul’s mind to come down from its shock and for his body to react, but when they did all his worries flew far away and he found himself kissing back just as hastily. 

John’s stubble scratched his skin and despite how odd the feeling was, it was also burning him in the best way possible. He had a large jaw and sideburns that made him all man. His fingers were soft on Paul’s neck, and Paul could feel his roughened pads, the result of years of playing the guitar. His hair was sticking to his temples and to his neck, and when Paul caressed his forehead to push it aside, he could feel the protruding mole between his eyes. He smelt like cigarette and leather, and his sweat smelt like home, like they were back in Hamburg playing in a dingy bar and swapping prellies and dreaming of seeing their names written over buildings. It was all so achingly familiar that Paul was overwhelmed. It was _John_. His dead best friend, more alive than ever under his very hands. And in that moment, he had never wanted anything more.

John tilted his head and licked Paul’s bottom lip, and the fire in Paul’s belly roared. He opened his mouth and the kiss grew deeper, his trembling hands roaming over John’s arms and chest, unable to rest on one place at a time and pulling John closer to him, always closer. There was so much he wanted to discover, so much he wanted to touch that he felt like he was going insane, like he might die if he stopped touching him if only for a second. As if he could hear Paul thinking, John’s hands travelled to the front of his shirt, fumbling with the buttons. A flash of fear crossed Paul’s mind at the thought of finding himself shirtless in front of him, but as soon as John had popped the buttons open and was slipping his surprisingly cool hand over his chest, the fear was crushed under his growing desire. Paul pulled back in a gasp and rushed to open the buttons of John’s shirt, biting on his lip when he couldn’t do it as fast as he wished. 

A whine from John surprised him and when he looked up, he froze: John looked _wrecked_. 

His pupils were so blown his eyes were almost black, his hair was sticking up everywhere (courteousy of Paul), his lips were red and swollen, and his cheeks were flushed. He was breathing hard and staring at Paul with a hunger that was almost intimidating. It was mad to realize that he was like that because of Paul, and even madder to realize that Paul himself was in pretty much the same state – at least if the heat from his cheeks was anything to go by. 

Still staring at John, Paul dedicatedly detached the last button of his white shirt and pushed it off his shoulders. He had seen his chest hundreds of times, maybe even thousands. And yet, now, it felt like he was seeing it for the very first time, heaving with John’s hard breathing. Forbidding himself to linger on how weird it was to crave a chest that was unequivocally flat, Paul approached quivering fingers and started slowly tracing the faint lines of his muscles, his nipples, his collarbones, his tummy. John gasped and shivered under the touch, but did not move, letting Paul discover his body at his own pace. Until apparently he could not wait any longer and his lips caught Paul’s in another searing kiss. 

From then on, they were back to squeezing and groping each other in a hurry, and John guided them towards his bed, pushing Paul on it – and yet, still breaking his fall with a gentle hand behind Paul’s back, as if he was worried Paul would somehow get hurt. When the material of his shirt bunched up annoyingly behind his back, Paul raised himself a little and wriggled out of the shirt with John’s help. John went immediately back to his lips and Paul bit him lightly, delirious with want and satisfaction when it made John moan. 

As Paul was gently cradling John’s face in his hands and kissing him deeper and deeper, John started unbuttoning Paul’s pants. Totally lost in the desire that was pulsing throughout his whole body – he was practically vibrating with it – Paul raised his hips to help him and in a flash he was only in his underwear, his erection straining against the cotton. He could not even remember the last time he had been this hard. John’s hand roamed over his hairy legs, leaving burns everywhere he was touching him. Sadly parting one of his hands from John’s jaw (and John freaking _whined_ at the loss too), Paul tried to get rid of John’s pants as well but with his eyes shut tight with pleasure and his shaky hand, he couldn’t find the button. 

“Yours too,” He finally panted in John’s mouth, tapping at his hips unhelpfully. 

John chuckled and took off his own pants, discarding them before diving back onto Paul and lying on top of him. As he was flattening himself over Paul, an alarm was going off in Paul’s head but before he had time to react, John’s rock-hard erection was _just against his_, the fabric separating them thin enough to leave _nothing_ to the imagination. And then, Paul’s brain just shut down. He was feeling so much that he realized with shame that he would not last much longer, if at all. Trying to hold onto the pleasure, he surged up to kiss John once again, and he found without much surprise that he was already addicted to the feeling. John really was an incredible kisser, it was quite unbelievable. How was that even possible?! When one of his hands travelled to John’s deliciously plump bottom to clench it – the other gripping the hair on John’s nape, John started grinding on him and… _Jesus fucking Christ_. Was that death? Or was he being born again, somehow?

And then, _then_, just as he thought he could not endure more before exploding figuratively _and_ literally, John did the unthinkable: he plunged his hand into Paul’s underwear and grabbed him in the most intimate way possible. Paul gasped in his mouth, tightening both hands so intensely it probably hurt John a little, but John only grimaced and started grinding harder against Paul, his hand working wonders in the other's underpants. At that point, they were both just panting harshly, John tucking his head in Paul’s neck, and Paul could feel his wet breath on his skin and it made him want to kiss him and caress him but he could just bring his lips to the skin of his shoulder, and he couldn’t unclench his fingers nor move because this was way too fucking good and—

And just like that his whole body tensed under John; his vision went blurry, and the air was knocked out of him. He could feel John’s hand loosening his hold but he was still chasing his own release and in a sudden urge of confidence (or affection, he was not quite sure), Paul swiftly reached into John’s underpants and grabbed him too, ignoring how odd it was, and brought him to the edge. John shuddered against him, tense all over, and after a few seconds of panting, fell limply over Paul. 

As he was slowly coming back to his senses, Paul realized how drenched in sweat they both were. When he licked his own lips, they tasted salty. The cover of the bed was a mess, they were both disgusting and sticky, Paul could no longer feel his feet nor his hands, he was parched and dizzy, John was too heavy and too hot on him and his breath was tickling Paul’s neck: in one word, it was amazing. 

John finally raised himself to plop down next to Paul, their sides flushed together on the too narrow bed, and they just stayed like that, breathing hard and staring at the ceiling. After a while, Paul realized he probably should say something, make sure John was alright, that _they_ were still alright. Ask what all of that was, what it meant, if it meant anything at all. 

But instead, the only words that came out of his mouth were:

“Well. That was nice.”


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this in a rush but I actually really like that chapter, so couldn't wait to share it!  
Infinite thank yous!!

They didn’t talk about it. 

During the day, they were exactly the same as usual: making fun of each other, laughing with the lads, playing cards, singing on stage, talking to fans. Flying from one city to the next, trying not to fall asleep at the most inappropriate moments. Days passed, the four of them were just as tight as ever, and there was no specific difference between John and Paul. In daylight, they were just the great friends they had always been, without any ambiguity. 

But at night, as soon as they closed the door to their shared room, things changed. Paul could not quite explain it. It was as if since their weird conversation in the bus, they had got to a tacit agreement not to talk about it and to keep… this, to their room. Once in that closed bubble, they would collapse against each other, their hands rushing to take off their clothes, their lips never feeling satiated. They didn’t go very far, all things considered (Paul had barely even seen John’s dick in the dark of the room) but seeing as it was _a man_ Paul was doing this with, it was already a lot more than his brain – and groin – could actually process. It was like touching John became vital, kissing him as necessary as drinking water, getting off with him the only possible way to fall asleep later at night. And the more time passed, the more Paul was getting addicted to the other man.

It made no sense, and Paul would not think about it once they had finished and he’d be back in his own bed, because he could not explain it, and there was no point in trying to anyway. They didn’t talk during it, or after it, or ever at all. There was no cuddling, no kiss in the morning, not secret rendezvous in the day nor anything romantic like that. Not that Paul was opposed to it in itself – he was, after all, a romantic at heart – but it just did not happen. They were not like that, and John seemed perfectly okay with it. And he certainly was not brave enough to discuss it with him, or to try something a bit more… intimate, out of the blue. And he was fine with it, really. It was uncomplicated. He never thought he would have anything like that in his life, but they were pretty much the definition of friends with benefits. 

In a sense, it was easier for him to process the situation that way because then he could dissect it and compartmentalize it. Take one problem at a time and fully separate his normal day life from his abnormal night life (and he knew, he _knew_ it wasn’t abnormal _per se_, but he couldn’t help but see it that way. It still was his freaking male best friend). They were finally back to being best friends, and they just happened to use that extra… whatever it was that had erupted between, into hook-up sessions. Since they were young and full of, um, energy, and now that Paul had realized how deprived of sexual release his body actually was, having someone he knew to let go of it with was way more practical than having to meet random girls anywhere. They just needed to keep it absolutely secret and impossible to detect if they didn’t want to end up in jail or beaten up. It was still dangerous and Paul would often get anxious about it at the most random times, sometimes so much he could barely look at John in the eyes. This new situation also meant he had to somewhat rediscover what sex could mean. This was big for Paul – huge, even. He had never been with a man, and that man being freaking _John_ only made it more nerve-wracking. So the only way his mind managed to cope with it was by ignoring everything, by trying not to think about its meaning or its consequences. By giving in to his desires and categorically shutting out his concerns and fears.

It was a brittle solution, but for now, it had to work.

They were all in the dressing room, relaxing before it was time for their concert in Memphis. Paul was in a corner, back against the wall and getting his notebook to write down a few lyrics that had been travelling in his head since lunch. They were not particularly upbeat and even a bit sombre, but it could still turn out into a nice tune. He travelled the pages to find some empty ones and when his eyes spotted particularly messy writing, he ticked and went back to the page in question. At first look, he did not recognize the small, distorted paragraphs, but when he started reading them, he realized they were dreams. Dreams he had copied right when he had awaken then completely forgot about. He barely even remembered he had kept trace of so many of them – they even took three pages. The first one was dated July 26th and the last one August 18th, just the day before. As he read them, confusion and uneasiness permeated him.

_There was a big house in the snow and it was night but I could see everything. there was mary talking behind the door and she was trying to open it but I could just hear the wood rattling and there was no doorknob on my side, and my feet were frozen and I tried to run against the door to break it but I was becoming wood too I think. Mary kept saying I wasn’t trying hard enough_

_In the forest, the kids were running and I could hear their screams everywhere but I couldn’t see them, and there was rain – or snow I’m not sure – and john arrived and took my hand and said I needed to come back home before I got lost too but when I tried to follow him he was not there anymore and I could still hear the children screaming_

_Mum was talking to linda and the kids, and every time I tried to talk too they shushed me it was weird_

_I was in front of a house but it looked like a stadium, and I know my family lived in it but I couldn’t see them, and there was a gate with Brian as the guard but when I got closer it wasn’t him anymore, it was another man but I know it was still him? Then I don’t remember but suddenly I was in the field and people in the stands were screaming at me, they said they didn’t want a liar inside. I think they were all from the future _

_John was dead_

_I was trying to get into the house, I think I dreamt about it before. the kids were inside, and john was at the door but I couldn’t touch him and I was crying, and stella was telling me from the tree that I had forgotten all of them so I was not allowed in the house anymore. And when I asked john why he was not with me outside (I don’t know but it was the only thing that I was finding weird in the dream) he said that he couldn’t be with me if I didn’t understand it. I think I knew what he was talking about but I don’t remember_

_I was in my bedroom in forthlin road but it didn’t look the same anymore and there was ringo and George playing when I was trying to sleep. It was annoying _

_There was rain and it was all red, I was walking in some field and there were puddles and james was walking ahead of me and he kept falling into the puddles and after it was blood and I was crying because I knew it was john’s and james was drowning in it_

Paul closed abruptly the notebook, not able to read one more word. He realized with a start that he was shivering. He barely remembered half of these dreams and yet he could still feel the anguish and horror they had filled him with at the time.

“Hey, you okay mate?”

Startled at the voice, Paul looked up to Ringo, who was standing in front of him and eating a peach. 

“Yeah, sure, alright,” Paul nodded with a smile.

“You want a peach? The lady from the venue brought some, they’re really good.”

“Not hungry, but thanks!”

When Ringo went back to the others who were talking together a bit further away, Paul glanced at his closed notebook, wondering how much meaning and credit he could attribute to these dreams. He was used to having meaningful dreams, clear ones where he would just see the people he loved and connect emotions to them. But these felt different, a lot darker, more confuse, more tempestuous. Reading them, remembering them was not pleasant. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that they had a purpose, that they did not keep happening by simple chance. There was a clear pattern linking them, and if Paul could only manage to understand it, he was convinced his life might get a little bit easier. 

“I’m bored,” John deadpanned, sprawled out like a starfish on the bed, head hanging from it. 

The four of them were in an old house they had all rented in Los Angeles to enjoy their two days off. They had just been performing for nearly ten days in a row, except for the odd press conference day and another day off they had already spent in LA too but which had been more of a social grouping with other artists than anything. The house they were staying in was surprisingly ancient but quite charming, definitely not the one Paul remembered from his first 1966 summer. It still had belongings from the owners in it so it made for fun discoveries once in a while, like the surprising kilos of potatoes stocked in the pantry or the thousands of various napkins available in the closets. It was a nice place, though, and they were all happy to enjoy the quiet, the sun, the pool and having each a separate bedroom, Neil and Mal having rented another place closer to the sea. Brian was staying with the two roadies, but since he had business to attend to they barely saw him anyway. 

The concerts had been demanding and deafening, but Paul still had enjoyed every single one of them. It was as if he was living on stolen time and everything seemed bigger, brighter, more intense. Every person he saw, be them in the crews or in the crowds, looked incredibly young to him, innocent and carefree. When he watched his bandmates prepare for the gigs or even perform, it was like being the witness of a documentary and yet, he felt connected to them. He understood what they were going through because he lived it too. He felt it. And that was something that had not happened to him in a very long time. Even the new evolution of his relationship with John sort of anchored him more into the present. 

The first night, they had all been so knackered that they had just each collapsed on their respective beds, which had been a bit weird for Paul who had unbelievingly got used to sleep with John every night (even if the thought was still too weird to clearly formulate in his mind). It was also a relief, though, to see that John was dead on his feet too and that they both agreed without actually talking not to do anything in that house, at least not the first night. Actually, for Paul, doing _anything_ with John during the whole stay in the house was an absolute no-no. Especially now that their rooms were so close, with walls so thin. It was unquestionably out of the question to take the slightest risk to have the other guess, understand or discover anything was going on. He just hoped his friend was on the same wavelength and that they wouldn’t need to… talk, about it. 

As of now, it was the middle of the afternoon and the four lads did not quite know what to do after having slept in and fooled around in the pool all morning. George was sitting on the bed with John, back against the wall, and was trying to read a magazine, his efforts ruined by John himself who kept trying to put his feet on his lap. Paul was crossed-legged on the windowsill, idly playing on his guitar and thinking over and over about his dreams in the faint hope of understanding their meaning. They felt so real… 

“We could go out in disguise,” Ringo proposed from the wardrobe where he was rummaging through the clothes that were left behind by the owners and/or the previous tenants. 

“Ooooh yes! Let’s do that,” John blurted out, jumping up from the bed and nearly falling face first in the process if not for George reaching out to catch his arm.

Paul chuckled fondly, staying on the windowsill. Ringo and John gathered around the wardrobe and soon George joined them, the three of them checking out what could be used. One half of the wardrobe had hangers and the other had drawers. From Paul’s spot, he could only see their backs, their arms pushing one another and the clothes they were throwing over the bed along the way.

"You can't just mess up all their clothes," Paul chastised from his spot, trying not to sound like a spoilsport (but feeling very much like one).

"Don't worry, we'll put them back after," Ringo answered, turning to him with a smile.

“What is that?” George wondered aloud. 

John leant forwards and stood back up with a grimace.

“Blimey, it smells like death," He said, and Paul was mildly annoyed not to see what they were talking about. 

"Urgh, it's sticky, just drop it!” Ringo said, sounding vaguely alarmed.

“Look, I could be a marine captain with that.”

Paul still couldn’t see anything but Ringo laughed and George’s shoulders were shaking too.

“Try that one, Johnny, it goes well with your eyes.”

“Shut it, you fag,” John chuckled. “Is there a hat?”

“I don’t see any.”

They bent even closer as Paul could hear they were opening the various drawers. 

“Can you hold this, I want to—Wait, what is…?” Ringo started.

The three of them went silent for a second, then all screamed and startled, brutally recoiling from the wardrobe like kids in a haunted house. 

“What the fuck?!” George let out in a shrill voice.

They all had their arms stretched out to the other – whether not to fall or to reassure one another was not very clear – and John even bumped harshly his head into the top of the wardrobe.

“Ow!” John winced, a hand shooting up to his skull.

“Get it off! Get it off!” Ringo cried out.

Still one hand on his head, John brutally pushed the drawer closed, nearly trapping George’s fingers in it. His curiosity definitely piqued, Paul put the guitar down and approached them slowly. 

“What was it?” He asked, half expecting them not to answer. 

“There’s a massive fucking spider in that one,” George huffed out, turning wild eyes to Paul and pointing at the top drawer. 

Paul looked at him, eyebrows raised in surprise, then only laughed. He came closer, fitting in between Ringo and John and pulled on the drawer, which brought an immediate reaction from his bandmates.

“No no no!” The three of them shouted at the same time.

“What are you doing?!” Ringo shrieked.

“I don’t fear spiders,” Paul told him, playfully narrowing his eyes. 

“You haven’t see that one, it was fucking gigantic,” John told him very seriously.

Paul ignored them and abruptly opened the drawer, which turned out to be almost empty except for a few papers. The infamous spider enjoyed the occasion to peek out and run out of the drawer to go over and behind the wardrobe. The four men jumped a bit at the sight. John’s arm went over Paul’s stomach, as if he was trying to shield him from the beast, which ridiculously warmed Paul’s whole being. If the gesture was a tad less platonic than usual, he reassured himself by thinking he was surely the only one to notice.

“Nasty thing,” George huffed out with a shiver, taking a step back. 

Paul started pushing the drawer back, struggling with the old wood. But what none of them had expected was for dozens – or even more – of baby spiders to suddenly rush out of the drawer and run all over the wardrobe, not even vaguely following the trail of their mother. 

The screams and curses they all let out were probably loud enough to wake the dead. From then on, it all happened in a few seconds. Ringo jumped so far back he fell backwards and involuntarily tripped George in the process, who tried to stop his fall by clinging onto one of the coats, which, of course, simply fell from the hanger and did not stop anything. On the contrary, it only brought down several coats and dresses along the way. Paul unsteadily tried to push the drawer close and had the reflex to reach out to grab John’s shirt. And as for John, he securely embraced Paul from behind to drag him away from the wardrobe. Which actually worked until, of course, they stumbled upon one of the coats that was now on the floor and ended up falling on the other two. 

For a few dazed seconds, they all stayed sprawled out on the floor, Ringo on his back, George entangled in the clothes and John still sort of hugging Paul from behind (which had quite nicely broken his fall) until Ringo broke the spell.

“Fuck, they’re everywhere!” Ringo suddenly screeched, getting up in a flash. 

The others scrambled to get up as well, even if as they got up John did not quite let go of Paul, his hand still firm on Paul’s waist. When George realized he couldn’t get the coats and dresses off of himself, he started giggling uncontrollably, probably still high on the scare given by the spiders - and just high, period. Seeing him struggle like that made Paul laugh so much his ribs were aching but still he tried to help him get rid of the cursed clothing with John’s help. Ringo was keeping the door open, one hand on the doorknob and hopping around as if the spiders could be trying to climb his legs any moment. 

“Come on, hurry up!” He pressed them. 

“I can’t… Fuck, I can’t…” George kept laughing, which contrasted with his frenetic movements.

“Take my hand!” Paul told him, finally standing himself and trying to heave George on his feet. 

George hovered on his feet, which were burdened by a heavy fur coat.

“Just push it aside,” John chuckled as well, throwing worried glances to the wardrobe, still threateningly close, and still clutching an old flowery dress in his free hand. “AAAH FUCKING SHIT! They’re on the dress, they’re on the dress, fuck…!”

In a flash, he recoiled, threw the dress away, took Paul’s hand and pulled him to the door, George jumping over the pile of clothes next to them. The three of them ran to the door, which Ringo closed as soon as they were out of the room before they all went running through the huge house, stopping only when they safely reached the garden. As Paul stopped and bent to find his breath back, he realized he was still holding John’s hand and suddenly dropped it as if he’d been burnt. He looked at the other lads and was glad to see they were all struggling to find their breath, and thus didn’t seem to have noticed anything. Only John sent him a quick unreadable glance, grimacing as he was panting. 

The memory of his dreams came back to Paul so brutally he felt at once nauseous, his ears tingling. For a moment, he was not quite sure where he was, when he was. Then, as quick as it had come, the sensation was gone and Paul was still in the garden, standing up. George and Ringo were walking to the terrace and John was staring at him with a worried look. It took a moment for Paul to realize his hand was on Paul’s wrist.

“Are you alright?” He asked, very softly.

But Paul was not, and John’s hand was too much. He brushed it away and nodded, answering without looking at him.

“Yeah, fine. I’m going to take a piss.”

Then he went for the house, leaving John behind without a second glance. He couldn’t do this, he couldn’t face John’s reckless gentleness. He needed space. Just some time to figure out what the hell was wrong with him. And why he couldn’t shake the damn dreams from his mind.

The problem, Paul found out at dinner when Brian, Mal and Neil had joined them, was they were all so scared to fall upon the spiders again that no one dared try to kill them – or at least get them out. Paul was almost willing to do it, but George had vehemently convinced him not to, arguing that seeing how big the mother was she was probably venomous. Paul doubted the veracity of that, but he was too tired and still too nauseous to fight about it and decided to just let it go. The other problem was that it was John’s room that was now condemned for eternity (except when Neil made a timed run in it to retrieve John’s bag, under everybody's cheering). And of course, nobody wanted to have someone else in their bedroom. It was almost comical, how convenient – or very much not, depending on the perspective – the whole thing was. As if the gods had somehow decided Paul was having it too easy and wanted to spice things up a little. 

So, after an excruciating conversation where everyone was just demonstrating how selfish and cold-hearted Paul was for leaving John to die in the streets, even though he could just as easily sleep with George or Ringo – or hell, even on the freaking couch – Paul finally gave up and accepted to ‘host’ the man. He knew it was stupid, and that they all meant it as a joke (and even he himself found it funny), but he couldn’t help but to fight not to blush at the thought that they all _wanted_ John to be in the same room with him. As if they just _knew_ it would embarrass him, and thank God they had no idea just how spot on they were. During the whole argument though, John had been uncharacteristically quiet, just pointedly chuckling here and there to pretend he was still participating. And whatever his reason was, Paul could only sympathize with him. It was terrifying: ever since their… activities, had started, they had not ever been in the same bed to just sleep. They always went back to their own beds the minute they had finished. So now, even though he had done it an incalculable number of times before, sharing a bed with John again sounded foreign, impossible, an ordeal even.

So Paul did what he was doing most of the time these days: he buried his head in the sand, ignored John the whole evening, went to take a shower, put on his pyjamas, took his time brushing his teeth and just went to bed. He did not fall asleep, of course, the dark empty room making it only easier for his mind to dive back into the images of his nightmares. John was in a lot of them. But what was weird was that he couldn’t quite tell if it was present John or old John. The more he thought about it, the more he felt like it was a mix of both, the essence of John himself. All his memories of the man fused in one person, holding knowledge of the future present John could not have and recollections old John had never lived. It confused Paul.

The door creaked and Paul froze, eyes open but still laying on his side with the sheet up to his shin despite the heat. John perhaps assumed he was asleep and just went on with his life; Paul could hear him rummaging in his bag for a moment, then leave the room for the bathroom. When he came back, the smell of his coconut shampoo invaded the room and Paul closed his eyes to enjoy it better, his heart fluttering. He loved that smell. Had he changed his shampoo, or had Paul just never noticed before how good it smelt?

For a few minutes Paul lost track of what John was doing, the man being bloody too silent about it, until the mattress dipped and the sheet moved. Paul realized when he started feeling dizzy that he had been holding his breath for a while.

John stopped moving in the bed, and silence fell over the room. Paul did not turn around and slowly let his body grow heavy again. Minutes elapsed, longer and longer, and still sleep did not find Paul even though he was feeling drained. He knew John was not sleeping either, and he had no illusion that John knew that he was not sleeping, but he was still holding on to the hope when his friend’s quiet voice rose. 

“I know you’re not asleep.”

Well.

Paul froze again before letting out a sigh, finally turning onto his back. He saw from his periphery that John was lying on his back as well, staring at the ceiling. Not able to stop himself any longer, Paul turned his head fully to observe his friend. He looked tired, sad even. Definitely not the agitated and enthusiastic man he had been since they had arrived in LA.

“Are you okay?” Paul asked softly in a raw voice, somehow feeling like he was not allowed to ask that.

“Can’t sleep,” John shrugged. 

He opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it again. He glanced quickly at Paul, who was calmly looking at him, and readjusted his head on his pillow.

“Every time I close my eyes I just see the fucking spiders running everywhere,” He confessed.

Paul blinked and just burst out laughing, not caring if it woke up the others. And he cared even less when John looked at him and started chuckling too, his eyes bright again.

“Christ, there were hundreds of them,” Paul let out, rubbing his crying eye.

“How long do you think they had been in there?” John wondered with an incredulous smile.

“I don’t know. Way too long probably!”

“Jesus. We should sue Brian for this.”

Paul laughed again and turned to face John, slipping a hand under his pillow and the other under his cheek. He relished fleetly the fact that this felt normal, warm. They were alright.

“We killed somebody’s spiders once with George,” He told John, lowering his voice for the sake of the lads’ sleep in the other rooms.

John turned to him too, grinning.

“Really?” He inquired, whispering too.

“Yeah. Jimmy and Jemima. That was the spiders’ names, not the owners', you know. We were hitchhiking and staying at their place but we had no idea they were their pets.”

“Well, who owns a fucking spider?” John chuckled.

“Country people, apparently,” Paul giggled, stifling a yawn in the process. 

They both let their laughter ebb away, peacefully looking at each other, barely a feet separating them. Weirdly enough, it was the most intimate Paul had ever felt with John.

“It’s crazy that you still remember that, though,” John suddenly noticed. “Wasn’t it like sixty years ago for you?”

“Even more,” Paul smiled. Then, with a shrug. “I don’t know, it’s a precious memory. I cherished it.”

John looked all over his face and just gave him a tender smile. This time, Paul could not fight the yawn that overcame him.

“You need to sleep,” John noted.

“Yeah, I guess,” Paul relented, his eyes feeling heavy already.

He was in the middle of rubbing his eye with a finger again when he suddenly felt soft lips on his cheek. When he opened his eyes, they were gone.

“Good night, Paul,” John told him with a smile before turning his back on him and settling deeper into the sheet.

Paul was left staring at his back, feeling all kinds of squirmy things in his belly.

“Night, John,” He murmured to the darkness.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Help, I'm getting soft and I'm sick! Hope you enjoy that one :)

Paul woke up with a jolt, his jerking legs entangled in the sheet that stuck to his sweaty skin. It took him a few seconds for his wide eyes to register where he was: in a dark bedroom, feeble moonlight filtering through the half-opened windows. He swallowed with difficulty and realized his arm and hip were touching another body. He stared at the sleeping form that was mostly snuggled in the dark, his sluggish brain struggling to connect the dots. A single sliver of light was crossing the bare elbow of the person, and Paul’s whole body relaxed and mellowed in an instant. It was only John.

Feeling a bit nauseous, he pushed the sheet away and let his feet tangle in the air, breathing hard to make the desire to throw up go away. His arms were still shaking and could barely support his weight, so he bent over his legs, letting his burning lips linger on his ice-cold knee. He knew it was not the best position to fight nausea, but he was exhausted and aching all over for having been so tense in his sleep. He did not remember his dream except for the sound of someone screaming – maybe himself. 

There was some ruffling behind him and John’s tiny, croaky voice rose in the silence.

“Paul…?”

Paul did not answer, not even sure he would be able to speak if he wanted to. More ruffling and he could feel heat next to him and a warm hand on his back. 

“What’s going on?” John asked, sounding worried.

Paul just shook his head.

John did not push, and a second later he was getting up and Paul heard him leave the room. Paul lost a bit track of time after that, only noticing with relief that his urge to throw up was slowly ebbing away. He straightened his back a little, his arms still tightly woven over his belly. And then John was kneeling in front of him and wordlessly handing him a glass of water. Paul took it and gulped down the cool water. It was doing wonders to his dry throat and the heat lingering in his face. John took the empty glass from his hand and put it on the bedside table. Paul managed to send him a small grateful smile. John looked paler than usual, a worried frown still on his face. 

Paul let out a long breath, stretched his stomach and slowly lied back down. He saw in his periphery John get up as well and go back to his side of the bed. They laid side by side, both on their backs. They could hear crickets outside, and the faint noise of traffic in the distance. Paul was pushing back his sweaty hair when a thought suddenly burst in his mind. He turned to John, suddenly in a panic.

“Your head, how is it?” He asked in a haste.

He raked a gentle but firm hand over John’s head, looking for any bumps. John just looked at him, his frown deepening and his lips parting in confusion. But he still let Paul’s hand scrap at his skull.

“You bumped it. The wardrobe,” Paul clarified, his thoughts still a bit jumbled. 

A strong emotion passed over John’s face, but Paul could not decipher it. Maybe he could have had, had he been more awake. 

“I’m… I’m okay,” His friend answered, sounding so tiny and vulnerable Paul wanted to cradle him in his arms. 

He didn’t, of course. Instead, he turned his head again and closed his eyes, sighing heavily. He was tipping over the verge of sleep when he heard John’s small voice a final time.

“Thank you.”

When Paul woke up next, his body was aching from some residual tension, but he felt somewhat rested. It was late, much later than he was used to. He stayed a long time in bed, observing with sleepy eyes the sunlit trees behind the still half-opened window. He was alone, had noticed it the second he’d come to his senses.

Dragging himself out of bed was hard, but he finally did it after what felt like hours of watching the visible bits of the trees. The house was silent, which was odd compared to the previous morning. His bandmates were usually not known for their discretion. He got dressed with heavy limbs, his legs and arms looking even whiter in his shorts and t-shirt, left the room and went downstairs. The smell of food reached his nose, but not breakfast food – something fresher, like a salad. When he arrived in the cosy kitchen, he noticed plates and the leftovers of a meal on the table. And in the middle of it, a salad indeed. Had long had he been asleep…?

“Sorry, you missed lunch. I didn’t dare wake you.”

Paul turned to the doorway leading to the terrace. John was there, wearing swim briefs and a brown loose t-shirt, a newspaper in hand and his square glasses on his nose. The meaning of his sentence was left unsaid, but Paul heard it nevertheless. _You looked tired. You needed sleep. I know how bad last night was_.

“’S alright,” Paul answered mechanically. “Thanks.”

And really, he guessed he did need that extra sleep. John looked at the table, visibly a bit embarrassed, then back at him.

“How are you?”

“Better,” Paul smiled.

He approached the table, leant his arms on the back of a chair and looked at the empty plates. There were five of them.

“Where are the others?” He asked.

He was feeling weird at the idea that there might be only the two of them in the house. Alone. 

“At the museum. Or the beach. They were not decided yet when they left.”

Paul’s stomach flipped.

“Why didn’t you go with them?”

“Didn’t feel like it,” John shrugged, a tad too casual.

Paul nodded and went to get himself a plate from the cupboard. He was ravenous. He served himself from the bowl still on the table and sat down, diving into it with gusto. John was still hovering in the doorway, clearly undecided, before going out again, back to the terrace. Paul ignored the pang of disappointment in his chest.

As he was eating, he tried to remember what he had dreamt about, but nothing came to him. It was frustrating, even though if he had to guess, he had probably dreamt about some isolated house, snow, his kids shutting him out or John dying. A shiver ran through him. In a way, he was almost relieved not to remember it. Seeing how upset he had been after it, it had to have been not pretty at all. His head was still aching from it, even if it was better than during the night.

Once he was done with his lunch, he cleared the table – including what the others had left – and did the dishes, enjoying the calm moment to clear his head and let the sun filtering in warm his body. He figured John had stayed behind to spend some precious time alone, since he was still outside, so he went back upstairs. Maybe he could read, or play for a while. That would be nice. He rummaged through his suitcase, finally found the book he had brought and settled back on his bed. Reading outside would have been even better, but he didn’t want to force his presence upon John. He was clearly not wanted – otherwise John would have stayed with him, right? He would have asked Paul to come with him or something. They were spending a lot of time together already. The man was probably sick and tired of Paul, and he could totally get it. Paul appreciated being alone, too. He was totally okay with that.

He was reaching the half of his book when he heard someone calling him from outside – well, John, surely, but his voice was so loud it sounded a bit odd. Paul hesitated; he wanted to go see what he wanted at the window but he also did not want to move. He was too comfortable. After a while though, his dilemma was solved when the door was pushed open and John appeared. Paul looked up, and his breath was knocked out of him. 

John was only in his swim briefs, skin glistening wet and hair dripping on his face. It looked like he had not dried himself _at all_ and was coming straight from the pool. There was even a small puddle around his feet. It was such a _John_ thing to do Paul almost wanted to laugh. He should have looked ridiculous – and in a way, he did – but Paul was mesmerized, his eyes raking over his body like he was some model walking on a stage. Which was nonsensical, because it was just a regular male body, looking close to his own, with flaws and hair in places where Paul was not used to see any. Or rather, to see any and to find it _bloody attractive_. A deep blush burned on his neck the second he realized what he was doing and he diverted his gaze to his book, even though he was not able to read anything. His heart was pounding, he felt warm all over and he was mortified with shame.

“You didn’t hear me? You should come to the pool, the water is perfect,” John told him casually, visibly unaware of what he was doing to Paul right now. 

He looked at Paul, expecting an answer, and Paul had to re-wire his brain to force words out. 

“I… don’t.”

The sentence made no sense, and the puzzled look on John’s face only confirmed that fact. But his friend’s eyes lowered to the book in his hands and he squinted at it – as if without his glasses he had the slightest chance to read _anything_ from that distance. 

“_The Time Machine_,” Paul snorted, uselessly showing him the cover. 

John nodded with an impressed face.

“You’re keeping with the theme, huh,” He noted with a tiny chuckle.

“Yeah,” Paul agreed with a tiny smile.

He had nothing more to add and they just stayed like that, staring at one another, neither quite knowing what to say from there. John was fumbling absently with the strings of his swim briefs. He looked like he wanted to say something but was not quite sure what yet. Paul just gawked at him, really, because there was nothing else to do at this point. He had become a teenaged girl too, apparently, because he felt things just by looking at him. The man was gorgeous, sure, but he was not _that_ gorgeous, objectively speaking. Well, yes, he was, but. He was still same old John. Paul had seen his body grow, get thinner or thicker, get older, more wrinkled, more used. He was used to John’s body, to his face. He knew how it felt under his hands now, and that was a new knowledge that definitely added some layer to watching it, but he was still the same man Paul had known for years. And yet, for absolutely no reason whatsoever, at that very specific moment, Paul wanted to kiss him. He wanted to kiss him really, really bad.

And all of a sudden, a very dangerous thought crossed his mind: he could just… do it. He could. There was an 85% chance John would not reject him, even if it was daytime and the others could come back at any moment. Even if it wasn’t in their silent deal. Would just kissing him during the day be really that worse from having sex with him during the night? The stubborn, scared and old-fashioned part of him saw the difference, and it was huge and ugly. The more lucid part of him knew it was stupid anyway, because if anything, having sex with someone was definitely more suspicious and had more consequences than just kissing them. And yet. He felt like if he kissed John right now, like that, out of the blue, completely sober, and without anything prompting it other than just John watching him quietly – _all wet_ – it said something about himself that he had not fully integrated yet. But he still wanted it.

His whole reflexion had barely taken a few seconds, and deciding to shut down his brain for a moment, Paul put the book down on the bedside table and got up. He slowly approached the door, and John stepped out of the doorway to fully enter the room, probably thinking that Paul wanted to go out. But Paul just grabbed the doorknob and closed the door. Then he turned to John, who was looking at him with some uncertainty in his eyes – almost unease. Paul hated it, and that was the last straw.

He gently cupped John’s jaw with his hand, tilted his head and kissed him. It was nothing much, his lips barely caressing the other man’s, but Paul felt his whole body shiver at the contact. There was something about John’s breath that made him want more, made him want to embrace him, protect him, kiss him forever. To have all of him. It was intoxicating and thoroughly irrational, and Paul felt defenceless against it. He could not comprehend it. So he kissed him again, still close-lipped but firmer, before letting out a sigh that was coming out of nowhere. Just that single contact had turned Paul’s whole body and soul inside out. In a reflex, he leant his forehead against John’s, having to bow down the tiniest bit to do it.

“Sorry,” He breathed out, shaky and keeping his eyes tightly closed.

He did not have the courage to look at John at that moment, but the other only shook his head, the movement reverberating on Paul’s too. 

“No,” He responded before claiming Paul’s lips again.

It was soft, but there was more intent behind it already, more heat. Paul could sense his desire and he did not even need to think about it. It was yes. He had accepted that, at least; if John wanted more, if he wanted Paul, it was always yes. Paul was always right along with him on whatever this was. They kissed for a while, quite languidly, and Paul gripped John by the waist to bring him closer to him. He was all slippery because of how wet he was, and it made Paul grin against the other’s lips. It was weird. John grinned too, and even if they were not talking, Paul just knew they were amused by the same thing. John started peppering his jaw and his neck with kisses, and really, it was illogical that it felt so incredible. Paul let him slip his hands under his t-shirt and they were cold from the pool but if Paul shivered from head to toe, it was not because of it. When he saw Paul was okay with it, John tugged on his t-shirt and Paul raised his arms to allow him to take it off. 

Now both shirtless, they started kissing again and Paul was starting to feel a bit dizzy with want. He wanted to get off with him but the way John was so reverently caressing his chest, his arms, his waist, made him feel a surge of confidence. Suddenly, he realized he was curious. He wanted to discover more about John’s body. It was coming out of nowhere, and the idea still had something off-putting and sickening to it, but still, some part of him was interested in knowing how it felt. How it could make John feel, also, which was just as much important to him. He had never, ever felt curious about that before, and shame and disgust were burning low in his belly, but with John against him, against his lips, he felt like he was allowed to be. Allowed to want, to try _more_. He was safe, here.

So he pulled back and cleared his throat. This was something that required a minimum of consultation first.

“Can I… Just, sit on the bed. Please?” He said, trying hard to sound more confident about it than he actually felt.

John looked at him, confused, and then Paul could tell the exact moment he put two and two together. His eyebrows shot up, his lips parted and a flame of arousal sparked in his eyes. But he still tried to tame it and his face morphed into an expression of worry and uncertainty. 

“Really?” He asked, quiet. 

And he looked so careful, so genuine about it, that Paul only wanted him more. So he nodded fervently, knowing he would lose all his nerve if they talked about it for too long. John searched his eyes again and nodded too. So Paul kissed urgently him again, deeper, and pushed him towards the bed, his hands still firm on John’s waist. Once John was sitting, Paul naturally kneeled in front of him, not wanting to let go of his soft demanding lips, and John naturally opened his legs to let him fit in-between them. It was awkward, and weird, and Paul was so flushed his face was burning. But as his trembling, impatient hands caressed John’s belly and his bare thighs, there was so much _want_ in his veins he could barely think straight anymore and he just pushed himself closer, always closer to John, to feel him as much as he could. John’s skin, his body hair, his breath, his touch, everything sent sparks of arousal in his lower belly and he was paralyzed with the need to have more, touch more, taste more. So when he left John’s mouth to trail kisses over his chin, his neck, his torso, always lower, lower, he was terrified but also more decided than ever. He couldn’t think about it. If he did, he would just run away screaming and kicking everything and he would never forgive himself for not having even _tried_.

When he finally pushed down and took off John’s swim briefs, there was no running away anymore because his brain just short-circuited. John was hard, very much so. Paul started shivering again. Was he really doing this? How had he even ended up in this situation? What, how…?! But, as if he had sensed Paul’s fear invading his brain, John cupped his face and kissed him again on the lips, softly, adoringly. His thumbs were caressing Paul’s cheeks and the gesture was so tender and reassuring Paul sighed in his mouth. 

“Don’t do it,” John whispered. “Come here.”

He was tugging Paul to have him sit with him on the bed but Paul was not having it. He was desperately hard, John too, and if he knew something about himself, it was that he was not one to run away in front of the unknown. No matter how terrifying it was. So he kissed John one last time, braced himself, and just did it.

They were both lying on their backs on the bed, naked. Paul was staring at the ceiling and could not stop licking his own lips. He was hot (also because of the weather), sweaty and totally spent. He did not even quite know where he was, when he was. Time had stopped and didn’t mean anything anymore, as if they were in a bubble, just out of the world. He only knew John’s fingers were idly drawing circles on his hand, and the feeling was very nice, and John’s breathing next to him was calm and relaxed. Everything else was irrelevant.

“Next time it’s my turn,” John said after a while.

His voice was both lazy and joyful, and Paul had never really heard it sound like that. It was also the first time they talked about it _after_ doing it, so it made him feel weird again. This felt like a whole new situation. 

“You don’t have to, you know, I didn’t—” Paul started, voice a bit hoarse. 

“I know. I want to,” John cut him off, squeezing Paul’s hand for a second and then letting go of it altogether. “You’re not the only one entitled to do blowjobs, you know.”

Paul blushed violently. It was one thing to do the thing and another to hear the word out loud. And to plan on doing it again, like this was totally normal, something that just happened once in a while between mates. Moreover, judging from John’s smirk, he was enjoying how embarrassed that made Paul, the tosser. He raised his arms above his head and stretched, and Paul realized suddenly they had never stayed in bed together _after_ either, in the past two weeks. It was weird, but also… not so much. Or rather, it was weird how _not weird_ it was. Like staying in bed naked after sex was them just as much as playing together on a stage was. He turned his head to John and immediately found his almond eyes. He looked so peaceful. So safe. When he smiled at Paul, the latter found himself smiling back by instinct.

Of course, the quiet moment couldn’t last. 

There was a sudden noise downstairs, the unmistakable sound of someone opening a door. Paul and John both froze, looking at each other with wide eyes. There were people entering the house and shuffling around in the kitchen, at least two judging from the noise, and they were naked. They couldn’t have looked more suspicious if they’d tried. 

“Lads?” A loud voice rose. 

George. 

“He won’t come up,” Paul assured John in a whisper.

A second later, they could hear stairs creaking. George was coming up. 

Panic suddenly took hold of both of them and they flew off the bed, trying to stay as stealthy as possible. Paul’s brain was on high alert and screaming at him ‘_What have you done you filthy moron he’s going to see you and think you’re gay and hate you and it will all be over and—_‘ but he tried to shut it down. Hide. They needed to hide. But there was no wardrobe in this room, only a dresser, a dressing table and an armchair. He fished his underpants from off the floor and slipped them on swiftly. On the other side of the bed, John was looking for his swim briefs and cursing lowly when he couldn’t find them. Paul spotted them first and threw them to him. George’s steps were coming dangerously closer. He seemed to be checking in every room. Paul’s terrified eyes crossed John’s, who looked like a terrorized rabbit, and both looked at the bed. 

He couldn’t tell which one of them had the idea first but suddenly they were both throwing themselves on the ground to slip under the bed, figuring the sheet was hanging low enough to hide them from view. At the last second, Paul thought to catch his t-shirt and shorts and wriggled under the bed, on his stomach. John was lying next to him on his back, still stark naked, and he was so close to the edge of the bed Paul got scared and threw an arm over his waist to bring him flush to his side, to make sure he was not visible at all from the outside. They waited a couple of seconds, breathing shakily, until the door of the room opened and they both stopped breathing altogether. Through the slim space between the hanging sheet and the floor, Paul recognized George’s sandals standing in the doorway. 

“They’re upstairs?” Ringo’s voice echoed from the kitchen. 

“No!” George answered, and his voice was so loud Paul winced. 

The feet turned around and soon the stairs were creaking again. They waited for a while, on alert for every single sound that was coming from downstairs, but it sounded like their bandmates had gone outside again, probably on the terrace. Paul let out a shaky breath, and realized John was shivering against him. It had been really close. He turned to look at his friend and John looked back at him, eyes wide and pupils blown in the dark of the under-bed. All at once, the ridiculousness of the situation dawned on Paul and he started chuckling quietly, relief cursing through him. Soon enough John joined him and let his head fall back on the floor. Paul put his forehead on John’s shoulder. God. He couldn’t quite believe he had put himself in a situation where he had to hide under a bed like a naughty little boy who didn’t want to be punished. He was 78, for Christ’s sake.

“We have to sneak out, pretend we were out on a walk or something,” John murmured, right in his ear, still chuckling a bit. 

Having his breath on his skin did things to Paul, but he ignored it adamantly and just tilted his head up to meet John’s amused gaze.

“Where? The stairs are too old, they’ll hear us.”

John thought it over. His hand had come to rest carefully on Paul’s arm, still over his chest.

“There’s a shed right under the window of my bedroom. We could climb down from there. If you’re up to facing the spiders, that is.”

Paul shuddered at the thought. He didn’t really care about the spiders, but climbing out a window, really? He was way too old for this. 

“Come on, Grandpa, it’s not like we have much of a choice,” John poked him with his shoulder, still whispering. 

Paul groaned in agreement and he was about to slip out from under the bed when John grabbed his chin and pecked him on the lips in a surprisingly tender gesture. A second later, he was slipping out and Paul was left staring at the void, his heart beating wildly in his chest. 

He got out as well, eventually, and John wasn’t looking at him so they both put on their clothes in silence, John fishing out a new shirt and some shorts from his suitcase. As he was tying his short, Paul thought back to their whole exchange, under the bed. It was odd, how tender the other was being with him. It was so unlike what Paul was used to from him that he struggled to wrap his head around it. He wouldn’t have thought John was such a thoughtful lover. 

Once ready, John went to the door George had left opened, and peeked into the corridor. Looking like a right burglar, he signalled Paul to follow him and went out, straight to his bedroom. Paul followed him, walking on his tip-toes. He felt ridiculous, but also a bit excited, like a real five-year-old again. It was crazy just how _young_ being around John made him feel sometimes. They rushed into the spiders’ room and closed the door soundly behind them. There were still clothes scattered everywhere and they carefully avoided them as they went to the window. John opened it discreetly and peeked out of it. He turned to Paul with a serious look.

“We can slide down on it. Go first,” He told him, still whispering. 

“Why me? _You_ go first,” Paul huffed quietly.

“I’m on the lookout,” John childishly retorted. 

It was a stupid argument, but Paul recognized the lost cause for what it was and just rolled his eyes, approaching the window too. A part of the shed was indeed right under the window so Paul climbed astride it, one leg dangling in the void, before letting himself slip on it, his arms supporting his whole weight for a few seconds. His feet stumbled on the metallic roof of the shed and Paul winced at the sound, hoping it did not reach the other side of the house where the terrace was. He secured his feet on it and finally let go of the edge of the window. He looked up to see John’s head popping out of the window, observing him curiously. 

“All good?” He asked him, and Paul nodded before getting down from the shed too.

A few seconds later, John was joining him on the ground and rubbing his hands together to get rid of the dirt of the window’s edge. Wordlessly, they wandered off towards the road, which was thankfully not visible from the terrace. They just had to look like they were back from a walk, and the house was isolated enough in the nature for it to be believable. Paul did not really like it, lying to their friends about what they’d been doing, but there was no way he would admit the truth to them, or let them guess it. God, Paul could barely admit it to himself.

When Paul approached the house with John on his trail, both trying to look innocent and careless, George was lying on a lounger on the terrace, tranquilly smoking pot. It was so not surprising it still managed to surprise Paul. He joined him to sit on one of the chairs and George just smiled at him. 

“Where were you?” George asked, so calm, so clueless. 

“Went for a walk,” Paul lied easily, just as John was passing them with a wave and going straight into the house. Paul struggled not to watch him leave. “Where’s Richie?”

“Peeing.”

Paul nodded and looked out to the garden, and to the clear water of the pool. He tried to force his breathing to come back to a normal rhythm. George didn’t suspect anything. It was alright. The sun was warming his skin and blinding him a little, and the light breeze kept him from feeling too hot. They stayed silent together for a while, enjoying the quiet moment. They did not have enough of those.

“Would you like to be the baby’s godfather?” George suddenly asked out of the blue, between two puffs.

Paul felt his insides being pulled upside down and turned wild eyes to George. He couldn’t believe his ears. 

“Me? Godfather…?”

George squinted at him and gave him a half-shrug.

“Yeah. You know, raise them if I die and the whole shebang.”

Paul just stared at him, gaping like a fish. He was reacting like an idiot but happiness and gratitude were swimming in his chest.

“I’m kidding, cheer up,” George chuckled, punching lightly his arm. “You’ll just have to buy them expensive presents and babysit once in a while. You’re in?”

“Yes,” Paul finally got out. “Yes, yes, totally, that’s… yeah, that’s gear. Thanks for, you know, asking me.”

“Well, who else, you know?” George retorted, but Paul could tell by the glint of his dark eyes that he was just as pleased and affectionate as Paul was on this. “Can’t be Richie ‘cause he would only feed them fruit and can’t be John ‘cause, well. Might kill them by inadvertence.”

At that Paul let out a short laugh, smiling fondly at the image of John struggling with George’s baby. After another few moments, George wordlessly handed out his spliff to him. He was still looking out at the garden, as if it was nothing. And once upon a time, it had been. Paul hesitated. He remembered how good pot used to make him feel, how relaxed, and he sure could use some relaxation now. Would he be betraying his daughter if he took just one drag? Somewhere, he knew she wouldn’t mind. Knowing the circumstances he was in, she would probably turn a blind eye to it. He wanted to do it. It was bad for his health, a bit, but he knew for a fact that his body had endured _much worse_ in the past. He kept staring at the offending object, and George was starting to withdraw his arm when Paul made his mind.

“Oh you know what, fuck it.”

He took it, took a drag out of it, and handed it back to George in a flash. George chuckled incredulously.

“You’re so daft sometimes,” He told him fondly.

Paul blew out the smoke and looked at him with a smile. If only he knew how right he was.


	33. Chapter 33

“So, we’re still good with it then? San Francisco, and then no more?” Ringo asked, cigarette in hand and looking at his bandmates around the table.

Night had fallen already, and they were enjoying the cool breeze and the crickets on the terrace for their last evening off. The remnants of their meal were still on the table, and they were all spread out on chairs around it. Ringo, with his free hand, was toying with the salt shaker, George had his arms crossed on the table and his head on them, John was leaning on his chair with his feet propped up against Ringo’s chair and was biting his nails, and Paul had somehow bent his legs on his own chair, arms circled around them. It was nice to be supple enough to do that again. 

“Well I haven’t changed my mind,” George assured from his spot. 

“Yeah, I’m not going through something like the bombing thing again,” John snorted. 

Paul worried his lip between his teeth. He didn’t like that conversation, and was afraid that if he spoke up he would only make it worse. But he had to try. 

“It’s, um… we don’t have to say it’s over forever, do we?” He started, cautious. “I mean, we could want to come back to it later, you know. Like to try small venues again, or something. In a few years, maybe. I mean, I’m not saying we will have to do it, just. We are not saying no forever, right? Are we?”

The others stayed silent for a while, each processing his words. John was looking at him with a little pensive frown. 

“Depends on the crowds, though. If people calm down, I don’t know. Why not, later,” Ringo agreed amiably. 

“I don’t want to fear for my life every time I get on stage, though,” George mumbled. 

Paul tapped his fingers on his knee. This was not going in the direction he’d hoped, but at least they were not completely shutting him out. 

“Yeah, but, you know. They may take our lives, but they’ll never take our freedoms,” He chuckled in a low voice, trying to lighten the situation.

Ringo and John looked at him with puzzled faces. Paul wanted to face palm – now was not the time to quote freaking _Braveheart_. Nor ever, actually.

“What?” John asked.

“Yeah well, I’d rather they didn’t take either, personally,” George answered as he poured himself a glass of wine. 

Paul shook his head, unfolding his legs to let his feet fall to the ground.

“Nevermind, it was just… a bad joke.”

“Look, we’re not saying no, alright? I mean, I’m not, at least. Just, we’ll see later, yeah? For now, not losing our minds over concerts will be good for all of us,” John continued, looking at Paul with earnest eyes. “Will give us more time to work on albums, or to do our own things, you know.”

“Yeah. We just need to tell Brian, now,” Ringo added, widening his eyes at the prospect.

“Yep. It’s going to be one blast of a conversation,” George added with a dry chuckle.

“To the last concerts, then?” John said, raising his glass to the others. 

Ringo and George followed his lead, and Paul did too, albeit a bit reluctantly.

“To the last concerts,” George repeated. “A new step for the Beatles.”

“And to George’s future fatherhood!” Ringo added with a laugh. 

“Sod off!”

George pushed Ringo’s arm, making him miss his mouth with his drink. Paul laughed along and his gaze met John’s. His friend’s eyes were bright.

“To a new step,” He echoed quietly before downing his drink.

Brian had not taken the news as bad as he had in Paul’s memories. Maybe Paul had remembered it wrong; or maybe it was that this time, himself was not taking it as bad and thus was seeing the whole situation differently too. They had left clues beforehand, scattered across their three weeks of touring, and they seemed to have started blossoming in their manager’s mind. Anyway, Brian had just nodded along to their words, processing the news with calm. He was not happy about it – they knew him well enough to see that – but he understood where they were coming from. And that was the best they could ask for, really. 

However, going back to the last days of touring was not as easy as Paul had expected it to be. He was nervous, melancholy, and frustrated, and as they were flying to San Francisco for their last ever concert in front of an audience, he was slowly understanding that there were several reasons for that. 

Whatever the boys had said to reassure him, Paul knew it was going to be their last concert. Up to now, he had believed things would change this time around, if he didn’t overlook George, if he tried to be a bit less bossy, if he bit his tongue once in a while. He had agreed with George that a pause in touring would be good, and he had meant it, because he believed things would be different. He really thought he could make a difference this time around. But since the cherry bombs incident, uncertainty had slowly crawled into his mind and he was not so sure of anything anymore. It was as if fate had decided events had to happen a certain way, and whatever Paul did to avoid it, nothing could escape it. He was nothing but a pawn on a chessboard bigger than he could conceive. So now that the last concert was coming, he was not only bittersweet, but downright miserable about it because he could not stop thinking about what would come next: the fights, the misunderstandings, the money, and the legal issues. The break-up. It felt more inevitable than ever, and Paul felt defenceless against it. He would still try his best to prevent it, of course, but now he was far from convinced it could actually make any difference in the grand scheme of things. 

Plus, he still could not make sense of his dreams. They were all grim and scary, and he would be talking about them with the therapist when he would get back to London, but it was not a very reassuring prospect because he knew he couldn’t tell her everything anyway. She didn’t know he was from the future, and he would never tell her. So even if she might be able to give him clues to understand them, he still was alone in figuring them out – if they even had any meaning at all. Maybe it was all pointless. Maybe they were just nightmares, headless. Just scary thoughts flowing through his mind. He had a feeling it was not the case, but it would not be the first time he was proved wrong. The only thing he managed to make sense of was that his mind was trying to tell him he was doing something wrong. In his dreams, his kids and John told him he was lying, that he was not trying hard enough and that he might get lost if he didn’t understand something. But what? What didn’t he understand? And where could he get lost? Unless… unless he could lose himself. His future self, maybe? Maybe his brain, through his kids, was afraid to forget his future-past. But then, why would John be telling him this too? He could not forget him. He was right there with him. It didn’t make any sense, and every time Paul thought about it, worry gave him headaches. 

And as for his situation with John, it was the most worrisome of all.

They had barely done anything since the George incident (God knows they had both been pretty scared off by that) and Paul would lie if he said he was completely okay with that. Not that he was specifically physically frustrated, but he did not quite know what to make of his relationship with him. Their conversations were starting to feel a bit awkward or even superficial at times and Paul was terrified this meant this whole sex business was finally taking its toll on their friendship. It had finally gone from something blissfully uncomplicated to something painfully delicate, with an elephant in the room he himself had trouble identifying.

And the worst was he didn’t like how unsure and flustered he was about it all. He was not like that, usually; he was a confident man and a bold lover. He was not one to second-guess himself about every single gesture or to be blushing at every occasion like a little girl. And yet, with John, he was sometimes nothing more than a blubbering mess, and it pissed him off. He hated it, not being in control of the situation, of his own reactions. He liked surprising others, but he didn’t like surprising himself, especially on that point. He didn’t like feeling confused, and unsure, and controlled by his emotions. It was not him. Sure, John and he were having great times together, but was it worth it if it made him lose everything he knew about himself in the process?

He picked up a magazine to try and read it but he couldn’t shut his own thoughts off. In front of him, Ringo was reading a book and wearing earbuds to keep the noise out. Paul looked at him, so calm and relaxed, and tapped on his foot with his own, feeling the urge to talk to him.

“Hey,” He said uselessly once Ringo looked at him. 

His friend took off his earbuds and smiled. 

“Hey. What’s up?” 

“Nothing,” Paul quickly answered. It was his default response, but he felt stupid saying it now. “Do you have plans for later? You know, when we come back to London…?”

Ringo paused to think it over. 

“Not really, actually. I guess I’ll spend time with Mo and the kid. See my folks a bit. You?”

“I don’t know,” Paul admitted, and it frightened him to realize how true that was. “I will probably write. Maybe travel. I don't know." He paused, trying to picture what his days would look like, back to his Londonian life. "I bought a dog.”

“Oh yes, John told me. He said it was a marvellous one.”

Paul felt a smile tugging at his lips. He imagined John describing Martha to Ringo. 

“He said that, did he? I should be careful, then. Might try to nick her from me.”

“Don’t worry, he won’t even have time to do it, what with his film and everything,” Ringo chuckled. 

Paul’s smile faltered on his face and he fought to keep it on. He had completely forgotten about John’s film, and his friend had not mentioned it once. He had sort of imagined this time John wouldn’t do it, but apparently he had been wrong. John would go play the actor and Paul would not see him for several weeks. His stomach churned at the thought. 

“Yeah. I guess he won’t.”

As they were singing their last song of their last concert, Paul couldn’t stop looking all around him, trying to commit every single detail to memory just like he had the night before. It was all so similar to his first 1966 year: their costumes, the crowd, their places on stage, even the camera John and he had attached to Ringo’s drums. And yet, it was a new experience as well. This time, he was not as naïve as he had been and he knew just how much he needed to enjoy the moment. So he tried to, as much as he could. 

Looking across to John that night was harder than ever before. His friend – or should he call him his lover too, now? – was glowing, and Paul wished he could freeze the moment and make it last forever, because this was perfect. Being young again, floating in the music, surrounded by his bandmates, close to John. But the song came to an end, and as quick as a flash they were all bowing to the audience and leaving the stage. 

Paul was pushed around, rushing along the others to the car that would drive them to their hotel. The lads were all talking loud, happy and excited. They were all sweaty, exhausted, and more alive than ever. They were glad to have finished the concert, and Paul knew they meant it. He wished it didn’t sting as much as it had the first time around. When they arrived to the hotel, everyone agreed to celebrate their last night, and Paul joined in. He was laughing as loud as the others, joking around as much as anyone, getting himself drunk even quicker. He was not celebrating, though. He was trying to forget. Forget he could not change the course of things, forget they were giving up on touring. Forget he would barely see John in the next two months.

When John and he finally reached their room, stumbling through the empty corridor and giggling like schoolboys, Paul was wasted enough not to feel sad anymore, even if his worries were still lurking in the corner of his mind. But all that mattered at the moment were John’s burning hands on his waist as he was opening the door, his delightful laugh in his ear and the bed waiting for them on the other side.

They entered and Paul closed the door behind his back, looking at John as he was tugging off his tie and taking off his shoes. This was their last night together. The thought sobered him at once, hitting him so hard he felt dizzy from it. They wouldn’t be able to do this once back in London. They didn’t live together, didn’t have anything planned together. They had not talked about what came next, not even once. They were heading nowhere. What were they even? Fuckbuddies? It worked well on tour because tour was different; tour was like summer camp, where regular rules did not apply. But back in daily life, rules would come back stronger. They were two men, and they were famous. They couldn’t just phone each other and meet up whenever they wanted to shag. They could see each other – of course, they had done it for years. But that was different, wasn’t it? John would be off to shoot his film and see his son and shag women, and Paul would just come back to his pets and his rented apartment. 

If things happened the way they had in the past, and if they didn’t fight or anything, they would see each other, let’s say, five or six times maximum before having to come back to the studio. And logistically speaking, they wouldn’t be able to _do_ anything for at least half of those times. So what was Paul supposed to do now? Just forget about everything? Find someone else to shag until he forgot John’s smell, what his skin felt like, how good it felt to have his hands on him?

Would he even be able to forget it? They had only started doing things a couple of weeks before, but Paul was lucid enough to know he was already quite obsessed with the other man. Maybe stopping all of it altogether was not such a bad solution, after all. Maybe if they stopped it now, their friendship would still come out unscathed. And he would stop embarrassing himself by behaving like a stupid teenage girl. Or boy. Whatever. He would just have to get over John. Go on with his life without having sex with his male best friend should not be that difficult, after all. And yet, the very thought of it was like acid in his veins, turning his whole body to poison.

He was still lost in his thoughts when John approached him with a smile and pinned him against the door with his hands on each side of Paul’s head, his pelvis brushing against his. Feeling his heat so close to him immediately sent a rush of arousal to Paul’s head and lower belly. Well. One last time couldn’t hurt, could it?

“Good evening,” John told him, his voice a tad lower than usual, giggling a little.

God. He was actually using his crooner voice on Paul. As if Paul had not seen him use it countless times on a hundred different girls. And yet, why was Paul’s body so freaking reactive to it?! He found himself giggling too, and moved a little so that his leg brushed John’s inner thigh, and the single contact sent shivers down his spine. 

“Hello,” He answered, a little hoarse. 

John’s grin widened. 

“Nice gig tonight, uh?”

“Nice indeed. Very nice,” Paul agreed. 

He was starting to feel stupid with desire and just wanted to smack the grin off of John’s face. He didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to think about later. He just wanted John’s mouth, and his hands, and his body, and to forget everything. 

“So hear this out. Maybe we can get a bot—”

But Paul couldn’t wait a second longer and captured John’s lips with his, giving all of himself in the kiss. John was visibly taken aback but Paul didn’t let it deter him and brought his hands to his jaws, biting and licking his lips, kissing his cheeks, sighing in his mouth. After a while, John finally, _finally_ responded and his hands went up to pull on the short hair on Paul’s nape, which at this point he probably knew Paul loved. Paul pushed him to his own bed, which was the closest to the door this time and lost no time straddling him. He hurried to take his own shirt off, bending to take John’s off too, and his friend chuckled awkwardly. He was probably being too needy, but he didn’t really care anymore. This was their last night. He wanted to enjoy it to the last second.

So he reached directly into John’s pants, not really caring how ungracious or hurried the whole thing was. He didn’t want to think. He just wanted to feel John against him. John’s breath caught in his throat, and when Paul moved over him, his eyes shut tight in pleasure. Paul quickly got his hand out to pull on the other’s pants when John stopped him with soft fingers on his wrist.

“Wait, wait,” John panted against his mouth. 

But Paul didn’t want to wait. John’s skin was too soft, too warm… He kissed him again, hard, feeling like if he didn’t he might start crying. He couldn’t stop now, because stopping meant some things had to be acknowledged, and he didn’t want that. He just wanted to feel close to John, if only for one last time. John pulled back again, trying to avoid Paul’s eager lips with an awkward chuckle.

“Is that what you want?” John huffed, breathing hard.

“What? Shut up,” Paul answered with an awkward chuckle, a bit taken aback by the question.

He tried to nip at John’s collarbone but John pushed him with a firm hand. When Paul looked up to meet his gaze, John’s frowning, earnest eyes were searching something on his face.

“What?” Paul repeated, frowning too.

“Is that really what you want? _This_?” John asked again, showing their bodies, looking weirdly serious. 

“Um, I mean… yeah? Yeah. Sure.”

Paul thought this was the answer the other expected but John frowned even harder. His hand on Paul’s chest felt cold, like a metal barrier between them. 

“Why don’t you just fucking say it, then?” John asked, his eyes so dark and stern Paul was starting to feel truly annoyed. His voice sounded weird. Almost quieter, now.

“What do you mean? Why do you want me to say it?” Paul chuckled humourlessly. 

“I don’t know, maybe so I know you want _this_ to be over with as quickly as possible?” John retorted, harsh. 

Paul levelled him with an unimpressed look. He could not quite believe John was serious about that, and frustration was starting to boil inside him, mixing unpleasantly with the slow death of his arousal. This was getting annoying. And John, of course, just kept glaring at him.

“Are you fucking serious? That doesn’t even make sense,” Paul told him, trying to be reasonable. “Come on, mate! Don’t pretend you don’t want it quickly too—Have you even seen the state you’re in?!” 

He chuckled and widened his eyes at John’s own crotch but his friend only closed his eyes tightly, shaking his head. 

“Don’t call me that.”

But Paul didn’t even hear him anymore, his annoyance only leading him to anger.

“Oh come on now!” He snapped sharply. “No one is forcing anyone here. Stop playing the victim, seriously. You’re being ridiculous.”

He knew he probably sounded arrogant, even a bit condescending, but this whole argument was pointless. As if John had not seen how ridiculous and sappy Paul was being around him all the time. Seriously. If Paul had been a better man, he would have tried to understand why it bugged John so much, but he wasn’t and now he was only frustrated and angry.

“Yeah. ‘Cause that’s your fucking role,” John retorted, ice-cold. 

“What is this, a trial? What’s up with you?!”

John pushed Paul’s chest on the bed and got up, rubbing his hands on his face. He was shaking his head, as if he was talking to himself. Paul straightened himself, still sitting on the bed, but stayed silent. He did not want to just let out everything he was feeling at once. He had to keep his calm. Especially when John was behaving like a knobhead. After a while, John let out a long sigh and turned frowning dark eyes to Paul.

“Nothing. Alright? Nothing is up with me,” He said, each word sounding like it hurt him. “Now can I suck your dick, please?”

Paul choked on his breath, wide-eyed. 

“I’m—No! No you can’t, not like th—”

“I thought that’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Since I’m just a slag?” John cut him off sharply.

“What the fuck are you—” Paul stopped himself and breathed deeply. He started again, talking slowly not to lose his temper again: “Look, I don’t know how to handle this friends-with-benefits thing, okay? You are, _very obviously_, not a fucking slag. I’m trying my best here, sorry I’m not as great at it as you are. These things don’t come naturally to everyone, alright?”

John crossed his arms but still glared at him.

“Don’t patronize me. I might be younger now, but I’m not a fucking child. And stop inventing stupid expressions!”

“I didn’t fucking invent it!” Paul retorted, throwing his arms to the air. “I just don’t understand what you want me to say!”

Silence fell upon them, and his own breathing sounded very loud to Paul’s ears. He couldn’t hear John’s at all, and the second he noticed it, he felt like it was wrong. Something was missing. John shook his head and went to his bed, opening it.

“I don’t want you to say anything. Just forget it. Goodnight,” He told Paul before angrily slipping into his bed.

“John. John, come on.”

Paul waited for a few seconds, looking at John’s stubborn back, but his friend royally ignored him. 

“Fuck,” Paul cursed to himself.

Feeling beyond frustrated, he finally got into his own bed. His erection was fully gone by now, without any surprise. What the hell was John’s problem?! Paul was fuming. Their last fucking night, and _that_ was how John had decided to spend it. Nit-picking over the elaborateness of Paul’s answers. It was so freaking stupid.

As sleep was finally coming over him, hours later, it dawned on Paul that since that was his last night with John in a good while and that somehow, he had managed to muck it up, he would maybe not even _see_ his friend for quite some time, now. With a last flash of consciousness, he turned his body to face John, who was still back to him. And for the first time since he’d arrived, he wished he was able to turn back time again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hate me. I promise it will get better! This is necessary, pinky swear!


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank all of you, again... :')  
This one is massive, I hope you enjoy it!

The next day, when Paul woke up and faced John’s glacial attitude, he was not surprised. It hurt, an awful lot, but he tried to push it away because they were friends and friends had rows, it happened. John would do what he always did: mull about it in his corner, be snappy and biting for a while, and then go back to normal from one moment to the next. He never stayed mad at Paul for long. Well, that was not totally true; he had stayed mad for a long time when the band had broken up, but they had ended talking again. Eventually. 

So Paul bit his tongue and took it in. He packed his suitcase, went to breakfast, chatted with the lads, smiled and joked. He didn’t try to talk to John – he didn’t want another fight, didn’t want to face the mean side of his friend. He knew what could come from John when he was wounded, even if Paul had not done anything wrong enough to wound him. Or at least, whenever he thought back to the previous night, he could not find what he had done wrong. He had not done anything that they hadn’t done every night for the past nearly three weeks. John was being a drama queen for no reason. Right?

The flight back to London was thus a bit tense, and despite his best efforts, the lads ended up noticing something was wrong. He was sitting next to Mal and they were talking about his new-born daughter when George arrived and plopped down in front of them. 

“Did something happen with John?” He asked, point-blank. 

Alarms started ringing in Paul’s head but he stayed calm and kept an (hopefully) neutral expression. 

“Um… No. Why?”

George looked a bit surprised. 

“Haven’t you noticed? He’s in a mood, has been all morning. Biting at everyone. A real bastard.”

When Mal turned to look further down the aisle, Paul followed his gaze. John was cuddled on his seat, looking through the window with a stony face. Ringo was sitting not far from him but the fact that he wasn’t in the vacant seat directly next to John was a clear proof of how vile John’s mood was. That was one of the greatest differences between them: Paul covered his anger, concealed it. Nurtured it even, sometimes. John didn’t care how visible his anger was. He felt emotions the way he did everything; raw, extreme, even if it led him to explosion. Paul, on the other hand, was more apt to implode slowly and quietly, until he could not control them any longer and he snapped.

“Maybe he’s sad to go back to London. What with the weird situation with Cyn,” Mal proposed after a moment of observation. 

George pulled a pensive face and turned back to Paul. 

“Are you sure nothing happened? He didn’t go out to find a bird or something?”

Paul wanted to squirm on his seat but fought hard not to. 

“No, no… at least not that I’m aware of,” He lied with ease.

Well, who was the bastard, now?

“Maybe he’s on his periods, then,” George joked, and Paul grimaced internally. 

One more dated joke his older mind cringed at.

“Pattie must be happy to have you coming back,” Paul noted, trying to change the subject.

“I think she’s slowly dying of boredom, lying all day round. Her mum’s with her, but I’m pretty sure it’s part of the problem too. She told me she had to pretend to be asleep to get rid of her sometimes.”

Paul chuckled, imagining the poor woman being fussed at by her mother without being able to do anything about it.

“Don’t worry, soon she won’t be bored at all,” Paul assured him, smiling more at himself than at George. “She’ll look back to those days in bed as Heaven on Earth. Children are amazing, but they sure redefine was sleep means.”

“Listen to Mr. Bachelor, talking about children like an old priest,” Mal joked. “What do you know about not sleeping?”

George laughed loudly and Paul smiled to hide his hurt. It was normal, he knew it, but it still stung when the existence, or rather non-existence of his children was brought up. He glanced to the back of the plane, his gaze searching, and found John’s almond eyes were already on him. There was no clear expression in them, but it still appeased Paul more than he could explain.

Seeing how miserable he had been about his last night of touring, it was almost comical how relieved he was when the plane finally landed in London. He could not take John’s sulking any longer, even if the man had not said a word to him all day. They weaved their way with difficulty through the crowds of thousands of screaming fans and finally reached the safe inside of the airport. When they retrieved their luggage and all gathered a last time, each leaving on different taxis, he tried to meet his friend’s gaze but it looked like John was trying his best to pretend Paul simply did not exist. Even Ringo sent confused glances to Paul when they nearly bumped into one another when passing a gate and John stepped away as if Paul was a leper. And Paul was getting a bit mad, at that point. OK, John was mad for some reason, but was it necessary to show it to everyone and to make everyone suspicious? He knew no one would guess what was really going on, but still. Some caution wouldn’t hurt. 

They were all saying their goodbyes in one of the back entrances, patting one another, and John was still ignoring him. And at this point, Paul did not even want to say goodbye to him either. He was being a child, well, so could Paul. 

“Well, boys, have a good rest. We’ll see one another soon, yeah?” Brian announced, looking a bit emotional as he was patting Ringo’s back and looking at the rest of them. 

“You’ll come eat at mine? Before John leaves for his film?” Ringo proposed.

“I’m in,” Neil smiled, his bag slanged across his back.

“Depends on Pattie, but yeah, why not,” George agreed. 

“I’ll be there,” Paul added. 

It took everything in him not to look at John to see his reaction. 

“When do you leave already?” Brian asked.

“The fifth,” John answered flatly. 

Surprisingly, he did not sound mad. Simply… detached. Out of it. Even a little sad, almost. Paul was very tempted to look at him to understand his tone better but soon enough he was gathered in a bear hug by George. 

“Well, let’s do it on the third, then?”

Everyone agreed and after that, things went fast: a chorus of goodbyes and see yous, pats on the backs, some more hugs, hair and arms everywhere and then, nothing. Paul left for his own taxi without a look back and repeated to himself the whole drive home that this was for the best. Some time away from John would only do him good. He just had to ignore how déjà-vu the thought sounded.

It was not really doing him good.

He barely slept, twisting and turning all night long. The dreams were worse than ever, and his mind on was a loop. He tried his hardest not to think about John and what he had finally analysed to be disappointment in his eyes on their last night. John was mad at him, said Paul made him feel like a slag, and yet Paul simply could not understand what he had done wrong. It was driving him insane. It was John who had jumped on him in the bathroom. Who had ‘arranged’ their first hook-up session in the bus. Who had showed up looking like a wet dream on Paul’s bedroom step – and he _knew_ what he was doing then, Paul was sure of it. All of that while looking perfectly casual and normal during the days. It was John. Paul had just followed the flow. 

He was currently having a quiet morning, doing laundry and folding the clothing he had left to dry before leaving on tour – suffice to say, they were properly dry now. Martha was napping on the couch next to him, and kicking in her sleep. She really was a cute dog, and the greatest thing was that she seemed to have some new quirks she did not have the first time around. She was the same dog, and he got attached to her quicker than he ever had any other pet, but she was not exactly the same either. It was fascinating, really. 

It was strange, to be alone in the silence again. Not having people in his face taking pictures of them all day long was nice, but he was so used to having his bandmates, and Neil and Mal and Brian around him all the time that now he found himself talking to Martha and Thisbe just to hear someone talking. And to stop his thoughts from spiralling. Thoughts about who he was, what his life was becoming. 

What he wanted.

He folded a few t-shirts, putting them in a neat pile on the coffee table, and went to retrieve a sheet he had spread over the living-room table. 

The biggest problem, Paul had come to understand, was that he did not even _know_ what he wanted. What he craved most was normalcy; for things to be easy, natural again. He wanted not to worry about what he was supposed to do or not. Not to think that he was betraying his family every second he spent not thinking about them, even though they were few. He wanted not to have headaches all the times. Not to worry about John, and about their friendship. About the band, and what would become of it if Paul mucked everything up again. What would happen, almost inevitably now. He wanted things to get back to the way they used to be. 

And who was he kidding, really? That little interlude with John was pointless. It didn’t lead anywhere, it wasn’t… it wasn’t something. He fancied him and that was all it was, really, because otherwise he was still just his old pal. Nothing had changed between them, really. He wasn’t gay for him – he sure felt attraction for him and that made him not straight, that much he couldn’t deny, but he didn’t want to date or… or marry him, or start a family with him. A family with John?! No. No. It was stupid. They were not like that. When he thought about a significant other, he saw Nancy. He saw Linda and the beautiful years they had together. Maybe he could meet her again. Maybe they could… Maybe. Seeing Linda again was a very tangible reality and it meant so much. It meant… to start again. Try again. Have more time, more occasions. A new shot for a family life, even if thinking of the loss of his children sent a stab of pain in his chest and he quickly had to dismiss the idea. What was going on with John, it was different. It was sex. Deep friendship and sex. And it _was_ different, wasn’t it? It had to be. Even if… in a way, what he had with his wives, it was deep friendship and sex too… A connection, like John said. Maybe…

He stopped his movements, sheet still up in his hands. What was he doing? Was he actually considering _dating_ John? 

John was his friend. His _friend_. They would never do couple things, like… like holding hands. Going on vacation together. Moving in together. Planning things. Share bills. They would never even be _allowed_ to share bills, anyway. They would not be _allowed_ to do anything because John was a fucking man and the whole thing was ridiculous. What kind of life would it be? Hiding all the time, from everyone? Go on secret dates, and then what? Even the concept of a date with John was abstract. He could not even picture it. When he thought of John, he thought of hours sitting eye to eye and playing the guitar, not a romantic candlelit dinner. He thought of laughter. He also thought of all the bad blood between them, but soon pushed that away. It was a part of him, always would be, but it would not be fair to judge present John on things that had never happened to him. John was his friend. Sleeping with him was nice, very nice, and kissing him was amazing too, but in the great ladder of things, it was not what mattered most. 

What mattered was to have John alive, safe, and happy. ‘Being’ with Paul meant putting him in an unsafe position. They could be ridiculed and killed for what they were doing, and if they did… more, it would only be worse. And clearly, ‘being’ with Paul did not make John happy either. 

Paul finally folded his sheet and put it back in his closet. He had made his decision. Whatever had been going on with John – it was over. It could not go on. He needed to keep John safe – that was the most important of all. So, even if John stopped pouting and came back, Paul would not fall for it again. It was for John’s own good, and for the band’s. Even Paul’s, eventually. The two of them fooling around was wrong, and dangerous, and it could not be them. It could not.

On the third night back home, Paul was restless. He felt desperately lonely. He thought about calling some friends, going to an art exhibition or something, but he was not in the mood of seeing anyone, which did not make sense, but. He walked Martha, drove to the country even, but there was still some electricity buzzing in his veins. Maybe what he needed was to get laid, for real. A normal shag. Find a girl to start thinking about silky long hair, soft hairless skin, breasts, and stop thinking about his friend’s regular body, because it was abnormal and annoying and it made him uneasy. It was not like he was going to sleep with him again any time soon, anyway. He needed to go back to normal. He hoped he would not make him think about his wife – the thought was still painful –, but it was a risk he was willing to take. He felt horrible for wanting a one-night stand after so many years of steady relationships, but he didn’t have any better solution for the moment. At least, this time, he knew a bit better than he did in his first youth.

He was out in a relatively popular part of the city, wearing a fake moustache, glasses and with his hair slicked back. He did not really look like a catch, but he hoped it would do. The bar he had found was nice, not too loud but crowded just enough for him to go unnoticed. There was a brunette laughing with a friend a little further down the counter, and she was pretty. She had glanced at him a couple of times, but Paul was almost sure she had not recognized him. Which made her twice as attractive. As soon as her friend was gone, probably to the loo, Paul approached and sat a bit closer. Not too close – he didn’t want to frighten her, but enough to talk to each other. He noticed she was wearing a necklace with an emerald pendant, looking very much like one he had offered Linda, decades ago. Something twitched in his chest at the sight.

“You have a lovely necklace,” He told her sincerely.

She beamed at him and looked at her jewel.

“Thank you. It’s a gift from my sister,” She answered, and Paul could tell it was precious for her. “I’m Barbara.”

“James,” He replied.

She looked up to him and searched his face with a smile. When Paul met her eyes, he was confirmed that she did not know who he was and he smiled back. It was rare, extremely rare even to meet people unaware of his face, be it in disguise. It was almost the tiniest bit offensive.

They chatted for a while, and Barbara was really funny. It was nice, to talk to someone who had no idea who he was, who did not expect anything from him. She was 25, worked in a pharmaceutical lab and had a lot of little sisters who were always up to no good. Paul talked a bit about himself too, keeping any incriminating details to himself; he ended up telling her about his children, pretended they were still young to avoid any questions. Confessed he wouldn’t be able to see them for a while and that he missed them a lot. When she asked about the mother, he simply said she was deceased and Barbara was very compassionate about it. It was nice. He was really having a nice evening. And she was really attractive: almond-shaped eyes, tiny ears, creases all over her cheeks when she smiled. It was easy to picture himself with her. When they left the bar together to go for a walk (the bar was getting quite loud and stuffy), her hand came to brush against his and it was all very clear, really. They were turning into a quieter street when she put her hand on his chest and leant up to kiss him.

He found himself kissing back for a second before pulling away. It wasn’t… It didn’t feel…

“What’s wrong?” She asked with a tiny, insecure smile. 

And she was lovely really. Funny, sweet and everything. But. But… Paul squared his jaw, an internal battle destroying everything in his mind. No. He just had to kiss her again. He needed to do it. He _needed_ to do it. He looked into her eyes. They were light brown.

“I’m sorry. I can’t,” He finally let out. 

Her face fell a little, but she pulled herself together quickly and gave him a new tight smile.

“Sorry. I thought…”

“I’m… You’re lovely, truly. But I just got out of a long relationship, and—”

“It’s fine,” She cut him off, not mean. “I’m… I’m going to head home, now, I think.”

Paul licked his lips and nodded. It was quite late already, and London’s streets were not known for being specifically safe for a woman on her own.

“Can I walk you home…?” He asked, a worried frown on his face.

“Oh you’re sweet, really, but I live just two streets down. Don’t worry,” She assured him.

“Alright, alright. Well, get home safe then. It was a pleasure meeting you, really,” He told her.

She smiled, and her face was less tense already.

“You too, James. I hope you’ll see your children soon.”

When she left him alone and the noise of her heels disappeared down the street, he felt even lonelier than before.

Paul was on his way to Ringo’s house, and he was not motivated at all. He had spent the whole day dreading it, and had almost gone down once or twice to buy a bottle of whisky just to relax a little. He did not want to see John. He had managed to spend the day practically without thinking of him, his ‘John rehab’ was working. He knew after that night they wouldn’t see each other for a good while anyway, but still. He did not want to because it would only be awkward, and he did not want to see John if the other one was still in a bad mood. But mostly, he did not want to because he was scared about his own reactions when he would see him. 

He was not stupid. He knew he missed his friend; a lot. But he did not think seeing him was a good thing, right now. And the whole Barbara episode was not reassuring in the slightest. He hadn’t been able to even kiss her. Was something wrong with him? Had coming back in time change something in his DNA, in his whole constitution?

When he arrived to Ringo’s porch, there were already many voices raising from the house. It was not surprising; he had stalled his departure for so long that he was now quite late. Ringo welcomed him warmly, as usual, and led him to the living-room where the others were either standing or spread out over the couches. Neil, Mal and his wife, Maureen, Freda, Geoff and even Cynthia were all talking animatedly, with little Zak laughing on his mother’s lap and Julian sitting next to his. Paul offered them a general wave but his eyes kept searching the room. Just when he turned to Ringo to ask the burning question on his mind, arms circled him from behind. 

“Hey McCartney. We almost thought you wouldn’t come,” George said happily from behind him. 

Paul turned. George was all smiles, a cigarette in hand. Still as shockingly young. 

“Yes I’m here, the party can start now,” Paul replied with an easy smile. 

“You almost missed him, you know,” Ringo added, pointing his chin to George.

“What? You’re leaving?” Paul frowned.

George shrugged. 

“Not just yet, but I don’t want to leave Pattie alone all night. She’s having a hard time as it is already,” He explained.

“Oh, alright, yeah.”

“Want a drink?” Ringo proposed, leading them into the kitchen. 

“I won’t say no,” Paul sighed. 

He hesitated a second, then couldn’t hold it in anymore. 

“John’s not here?”

“Talking with Brian outside,” George answered, coughing slightly. 

Paul wanted to cry a bit at the sight of it.

“Please stop smoking,” He pleaded. 

But of course, George only laughed it off. Ringo gave Paul his drink, and the three of them went back to the living-room. Paul chatted a bit with Mal and his wife, trying to be in the moment as much as he could. They were his friends. They deserved his attention too. He couldn’t quite bring himself to talk to Cynthia, feeling guilty towards her. She was such a kind and loving person that he felt like the worst cockroach next to her. He kept throwing glances outside, only able to see Brian talking and smiling from where he was. He was laughing at Zak trying to grab his mother’s drink when he saw Brian entering the room and diving deeper into the house, probably going to the bathroom. A new glance outside told him no one else had gone out, yet, and that Brian had even pulled the glass doors closed behind him. Unable to stop himself or even to think twice about it, he put his drink down to go out. The second he was out, he was reminded of the chilly breeze that had already fallen upon the city and regretted having left his jacket inside. As he was closing the glass doors behind him too, he met Cynthia’s gaze from across the room. The usual gentleness of her eyes was gone, and she had an oddly blank expression on her face, but Paul chose to ignore it and just treaded a bit further over the terrace. 

John was sitting on the floor, back against the wall and taking a drag of his cigarette. His quite long hair now was falling a bit on his eyes, and his dainty wrist was elegantly resting on his bent knee. He was wearing a blue jumper and dark pants, and there were dark circles faintly visible on his face thanks to the light from the terrace lamps. His gaze was fixed somewhere on the horizon, as if he was deep in thought. He looked gorgeous.

Paul approached hesitatingly, feeling like an intruder. 

“Hey,” He said quietly. 

John threw him a vague glance before looking at the ashes falling from his cigarette. 

“Hey,” He answered after a while. 

Paul accepted it for an invitation (or at least, not a rejection) and slid down against the wall too, a safe distance from John but close enough to hear each other whisper if necessary. Silence stretched between them, and Paul had understood from the start that John would not say anything, so he went ahead with the first topic that came to his mind.

“I saw Cynthia is here,” He started. “It’s nice that she came.”

John squared his jaw for a second, not moving his eyes.

“I’m moving back in with her.”

Paul gaped and then scurried to school his expression, looking at his own shoes. He had not seen that coming. His brain started turning a mile a minute. Did that mean…? Had he just decided to give it a new shot? After everything he’d told Paul?

“We’re not back together,” John cut through his thoughts, sounding harsh.

Paul turned his head and met John’s hard eyes. 

“I’m just following Brian’s advice. She’s alright with it, so,” He shrugged off. “Will be good to be with Julian anyway.”

“He’ll be happy, that’s for sure,” Paul nodded.

He stopped talking, and was immediately upset by the tense air surrounding them. They had never been… distant, like that. As if a wall of glass was separating them. Paul hated it. And yet he did not know what to say. What could he say that wouldn’t feel futile, pointless? The glass doors opened, and Ringo popped his head out. 

“Lads, we brought pastries if you want,” He told them.

“I’m coming,” John said, squishing his cigarette in the ashtray on the floor and getting up in a flash.

Paul watched him go inside, apathetic. He hated it. Hated it hated it hated it.

“Paul? You’re not coming?”

He turned to Ringo who, bless him, was still looking at him expectantly. Paul wanted to tell him that no, he did not want to come inside and watch everyone be happy and joyful and have John mad at him, still, always.

“Yeah. Just a sec.”

All things considered, the evening was going rather well. George had left early, as planned, and the kids had been put to bed soon after. The pastries were good, everyone was in a good mood and the alcohol helped a lot. John was pointedly ignoring Paul in favour of drinking and laughing with Mal and Ringo, and Paul returned the favour. He had other friends to talk to, especially Freda whom he really appreciated and whom he had not seen in a long time. She was calm and soft-spoken, and it eased his mind a little to talk about recent movies with her.

It was already quite late and Paul was still talking to Freda with Neil dozing a bit off next to them when John arrived and plopped down on the little chair for the feet in front of them. Just a look at his sweaty face told Paul he was drunk, very much so. A sinking, bad feeling stung in his stomach.

“So tell us, Paul, then. Did you have time to meet new birds?” John started, turning half-lidded but dark eyes to Paul. 

The smile on his face almost looked threatening, and Freda sent him an amused glance. Thankfully, she took it as a joke.

“Why, do you have some advice for me?” Paul replied with a tight smile, hoping he would back off quickly if he pretended this was just banter. 

John’s eyes darkened even more, if that was possible. He was still smiling, but Paul knew that he was not amused in the slightest. Good. Paul neither. 

“You look like you’re desperate to find someone to shag, is all,” John continued. 

Paul seethed. Freda was quiet, and he could feel her growing unease. Even Neil was fully awake now, and the others’ conversations around them had quieted down a little.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” Paul retorted, trying to sound calmer than he felt.

“Mine? Pff, no,” John snorted. Then, with a bigger smile and a pat on Freda’s forearm, he went on: “But it might be Freda’s now, right? She’s good enough, ain’t she?”

“Did I do something…?” Freda chuckled embarrassedly, looking between the two of them.

“No,” Paul answered firmly, throwing daggers to John. “You didn’t do anything. John is being a dick. Excuse me, I need to use the bathroom.”

With that he got up, not trusting himself not to punch John right then and there if he stayed a second longer. Unfortunately, he was reaching the bathroom when a hand forced him to stop and turn around. 

“So that’s your thing now, uh? Try your luck with your inner circle? I gotta give it to you, it’s easier to go for the old friends than making efforts to connect with young people again,” John spat out. “You were really not joking about having friends with advantages.”

He looked furious too, as if he had any right to be. His hand was tight around Paul’s wrist, and Paul shook him off harshly.

“It’s friends with benefits and shut the fuck up, you arsehole. You have no right to say things like that to Freda,” Paul whispered angrily. “She is nothing but lovely.”

John laughed drily, rolling his eyes. 

“Such a knight in armour. You’re really wonderful, aren’t you? The perfect gentleman. Such a _nice_ man.”

The words hit Paul with force and he nearly staggered back. The memory of similar words in another lifetime rang cruelly in his head. He searched John’s gaze and thought he could see the hurt behind his anger. But it didn’t excuse everything. 

“Leave me alone. You’re drunk,” He told him coldly.

“How does that change anything?” John snickered.

“It doesn’t. It just makes you an even bigger bastard than you already are. Now fuck off, I need to pee.”

He pushed him to finally enter the bathroom, locking it behind him. After a while, he heard John’s steps disappearing down the corridor. He was boiling. He couldn’t believe it. He knew John was angry at him, but this was beyond what was acceptable. He was rude, and unfair, and a right bastard. Who did he think he was, putting Paul on the spot and insulting Freda to her face?! This was unbelievable. Just gratuitous rudeness. He had no right. 

It took him a long time to calm down enough to go back to the living-room, and when he did, he was not surprised to learn John had left the party.

The next morning found Paul sitting at his kitchen table, nursing a cup of tea between his hands and a thousand questions on his mind. It was barely 5am, but he could not sleep anyway. He was perplexed. The whole fight with John kept replaying in his head, and now that he was a bit rested and calmer, he could see that the other had been plain jealous. But he also knew that it didn’t excuse his behaviour. Talking to Freda like that was way off limits. Plus, he had no say in what Paul was doing in his private life. They had never made each other any promises, and if Paul wanted to see someone else, he was allowed to. It did not justify John putting up a show like that. And the others, what would they be thinking now? They had heard John’s words, there was no way they hadn’t. His accusations were vague enough to be interpreted in a lot of ways, probably, but it only made Paul angrier and more scared. 

But John’s jealousy meant more than that. Because it probably meant he didn’t _want_ Paul to sleep with other people, be it justified or not. And that… that was not a friend thing, was it? When he tried to see facts for what they were, the conclusion screamed at his face: John did not want someone that wasn’t him to be with Paul. He wanted to be with Paul. It seemed simple. And yet, when their whole situation, the complexity of their relationship and their decades of friendship came back to him, nothing seemed simple anymore. Judging from the evening before, they were not friends. They both acted like bitter ex-boyfriends. How could they move on from this? How had they come to this? How… just how? If only he could see clear…

He looked at a pen lying around on the table and an idea slowly formed in his mind.

He took the pen, went to his bedroom and retrieved his notebook from his bedside table. He only wrote his dreams down on it these days, and it felt strange to touch it again, to flick through it. He went to an empty page and sat on his bed. Clarity. He needed to clarify things in his head. Put them down as simply as possible to try and disentangle them. His relationship with John. What could matter here that he hadn’t been over a hundred times already in his head? He wasn’t even sure he wanted to disentangle—

Want. 

It always came down to the same problem. He did not know what he wanted. He needed to discern it, understand it. So that’s what he wrote down.

_ **WHAT I WANT concerning John** _

He stared at the blank page for a while and couldn’t help but let out a self-deprecating chuckle. He really was turning into a teenager again, lost in the middle of their bubbling feelings. He let his back fall against the bed and closed his eyes. John. John. What did he want with him? Images came to him and he opened his eyes to write them down, ignoring how stupid he felt about it. He just let the words come freely to him, not judging them, not even thinking about them. It took him some time, some things harder to realize then others, but when he finally rose back up and read his list in its totality, it was like a punch in the gut.

_ **WHAT I WANT concerning John** _  
_Keep him safe_  
_Make music_  
_Talk about anything_  
_Make him laugh_  
_<s>Play</s> create with him_  
_Listen to him whine about everything_

_His smile?_

_When his eyes crinkle when he’s laughing_

_Listen to the radio in the morning _  
_See movies (even if we don’t understand them)_  
_It’s even better if we don’t understand them_  
_<s>Play with Thisbe</s> watch him play with Thisbe_  
_Show him how to really cook eggs_  
_Prove to him that tomatoes really are fruit_

_His hands_  
_His smell_  
_<s>Sleep next to him</s> yes sleep next to him_  
_Watch him sleep? Unless it’s too creepy_  
_Kiss him_  
_Make him understand how beautiful of a person he is_

_Talk_  
_Even have fights as long as he talks to me_

_Watch him grow old this time_  
_See places_  
_Hear him talk about faith and the world and love_  
_Take him to see Émile and Adèle_

_Walk in the park with Martha, and Julian too_  
_Kiss him kiss him kiss him_  
_Sex <s>(maybe not all of it)</s> we'll see_  
_Just see him and do nothing_

_Spend time_  
_Him_

_Him_

He stared at the words for hours, maybe. That’s what it felt like at least. He kept reading them over and over, but each time they only rang truer. 

God. 

He wanted it all, didn’t he? He did. 

He really did. 

Paul was staring at his telephone, nervously tapping his fingers on the armrest of the couch and chewing off his lower lip. He wanted to call John. Tell him something, but what? What could he say? ‘Hey, I know you hate me right now but I sort of want to date you?’ Jesus. That was insane. _Insane_. He could not even believe he wanted it, and yet, now that the thought had come into his mind, he couldn’t shake it off. He wanted to date his fucking best friend, risen from the dead, lovelier than ever, the bastard of all bastards. 

Suddenly the phone rang, and Paul startled so much he bit hard on his lip and felt copper on his tongue. His heart was beating like crazy. He took a couple of seconds to breathe and picked up the phone. What would even be the coincidences anyway that—

“Hi.” 

Paul’s stomach churned at the voice. How could one tiny word make him feel so elated and so terrible at the same time?

“Hi,” He answered.

“It’s John.”

There was an edge of defiance in his voice, and Paul felt suddenly very small.

“I know,” He said softly.

“We need to talk.”

And really, it was a logical statement, and it summarized pretty well what Paul himself wanted to tell him, but it still surprised and scared him. As if he was treading on an alien and very dangerous territory. In a way, he guessed he was. He swallowed past the lump in his throat.

“Okay.”

“Do you know Parliament hill?”

“Heard of it, I think,” Paul replied. 

“Can you be there in an hour, at 8? There’s never anyone that early. There’s a small car park at the bottom, ‘s just gravel.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” John repeated, flat. “See you there.”

And with that he hung up, and Paul stayed with the phone in his hand for a long time, wondering how the hell he had been able to live that many years without hearing John’s voice.

As soon as he parked his car in the gravel as he was told, Paul spotted John leaning against his own car up ahead and squinting at him from the distance. He was not wearing his glasses, had a brown suede jacket on and his hair was flying in his face. He just looked soft and freaking stunning and if Paul had any doubts left, they all vanished to nothingness. It was him. That was the one, right there. 

He got out of the car and immediately got kicked in the face by the wind, which made him shiver in a few seconds. He should have brought a thicker jacket. He approached John slowly, nerves and apprehension growing in him, numbing his arms and legs. The minute he met John’s squinty eyes, he could not let go of them. This was utterly insane. 

He stopped a few feet in front of John and realized his mouth refused to work. He wanted to say hello, something, but words wouldn’t come out, and John was just looking at him and not saying anything either and it should have been uncomfortable, but… somehow, even this was better than not seeing John at all. 

“You look cold,” John finally said, sounding as neutral as his statement. 

Paul swallowed and cleared his throat. 

“I am,” He croaked out.

John studied him a bit longer (and what was he looking for? After all this time studying Paul’s expressions, had he discovered a truth Paul was still ignorant of…?) and pointed his chin towards a vague pebble path leading up the hill.

“Let’s walk, eh?”

Paul nodded and followed his lead. It was a nice place: there was not a soul in sight, not even animals. Just grass, bushes, trees, and the city still half-asleep below them. 

“Are you not gonna say anything?” John accused him after a moment of aimless walking.

“You’re the one who said we needed to talk,” Paul answered defensively, diving his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“So you have nothing to say?”

Paul chanced a look at John, only to see he was not even looking at him but observing the field next to them as if it was very interesting. He didn’t know how to talk about it. That monstrous, nameless, ever-growing thing between them. 

“I don’t know. Do you?” He finally answered unhelpfully.

_Jesus, you fucking idiot_, he cursed at himself. They kept walking and soon after John spoke again.

“I was a bit out of it last night. I shouldn’t have come at you and Freda like that. I was a dick.”

“Yes.”

It was probably harsh, and he saw John wince from the corner of his eye, but Paul was tired of beating round the bush.

“I thought you were flirting with me,” John suddenly said.

Paul frowned. How in the hell had he—

“I mean, not last night,” John rushed to correct.

“When, then?” Paul asked, now even more confused.

“You told me I was _beautiful_, Paul,” John frowned too, crossing his arms protectively over his chest, still walking swiftly. “Back in March. You sounded real emotional about it, too.”

“I know, but that’s not… It was not like _that_.”

John looked down at his feet, careful not to step into any puddle. Paul could swear he was walking even further from him then before. He did not expect him to talk again until John’s incredibly quiet voice rose. 

“So this… This is just like, a giant misunderstanding, is it? You were just horny and I was, like, kind of there?” 

“No!” Paul quickly stopped him, a hand coming on John’s arm. 

John looked at him and Paul dropped his hand as if he’d been burnt. Both were standing face to face in the middle of the path. A bird was cackling loudly in a tree nearby.

“I don’t… I mean, no. No, that’s not what happened. I was just… I didn’t understand all of it. You know?” Paul explained, pushing a rock with his foot. Unable to meet John’s gaze. “But once I did… I wanted it,” He paused. Then, literally forcing the words out: “You. And I still do. It’s not a misunderstanding. At all.”

John observed him in silence for a while. His expression was carefully guarded. 

“I want you too,” He finally admitted quietly, staring straight at him, and Paul’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest. 

The blood pulsing in his head and numbing his fingers was so loud he almost missed John’s next words.

“But you’re so… you keep blowing hot and cold, it’s hard to follow you sometimes,” He told Paul after a while, with yet not a hint of malice in his voice. 

“I don’t mean to,” Paul simply said, understanding there had to be some truth to that. 

They stayed in silence for a while, and Paul was not only reeling from hearing John’s admission, but he was also struck by how hard it was to actually _talk_ about it. It felt so foreign for them to be talking about wanting each other. He almost wanted to laugh. 

“So, what you said earlier… It means you don’t think I’m beautiful?”

Paul’s head went up so fast he heard his neck crack.

“No, of course I do. You are,” He answered hastily. “That’s not—“

But he stopped himself abruptly when he noticed the tiny, tiny grin John was trying to suppress. Fuck. He’d fallen right into it. He felt a laugh bubbling inside of him but fought hard to school his features. Even if judging by John’s sparkling eyes, he was doing a very poor job of it.

“Oh sod off,” Paul finally let out in a chuckle.

John laughed with him, the sound soothing to Paul’s ears. Feeling the tiniest bit lighter, Paul took the chance to come one step closer to John – even if they were standing still a good two feet apart. But when John’s lips fell slightly open and his eyes became slightly warmer, he knew it was the right decision.

“So,” Paul started again in a soft voice, the rocks beneath his feet even more fascinating than before. “What do we do now?”

“I don’t know,” John confessed just as quietly.

Paul nodded. It was not surprising that they were both completely lost, he figured. Seeing their situation. When he turned to John again, his friend was still observing him. There was something in his expression he couldn’t quite decipher. He seemed to be hesitating, then finally made his choice.

“I guess we can just let things evolve on their own. You know. I mean… we both _know_ it, yeah?” He said. “So, we don’t have to… If you…”

He breathed deeply, looking far beyond the field, forcing his arms to detach themselves from where they were tightly crossed over his chest – even if he tucked his hands in his back pockets right away.

“We don’t have to think about it too much, yeah? We can just, you know… take it slow? Be honest with each other?”

Paul nodded again, quite on board with that idea. 

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s a good start.”

John gave him a small smile and they kept walking in silence for a while. The place was empty, grass, trees, rocks and the city on the horizon ahead the only presence besides them. The wind was like ice hitting on Paul’s face and his hands were frozen in his pockets, and yet he felt warmer than he had in days. 

“Paul?”

“Mmh?”

Paul turned his head to the other man, surprised when no answer was coming. John was walking with his gaze fixed on his feet. Until he suddenly stopped and looked at Paul, looking a bit frightened.

“I sort of want to kiss you.”

Paul stopped too and could hardly fight the bashful smile breaking on his face. It was strange, to hear him ask that. He glanced around to make sure they were absolutely alone and turned his eyes back to John. He was waiting for Paul’s answer, visibly very nervous. Paul simply nodded.

So John approached him and reached one hand out to lightly grab his jacket. And, slowly, he tipped his head up the tiniest bit to touch Paul’s frozen mouth. John’s lips were chapped and grated unpleasantly against Paul’s but he didn’t care. He snaked an arm around John’s waist to bring him closer to him and they just stayed like that for a while, just breathing against each other. Enjoying the simple fact to be able to kiss outdoors, with the cold biting their skin and the white sun knocking on their closed eyelids. When they finally pulled back, they stared at each other in silence, amused grins growing on their faces. They were both trying to tame them - unsuccessfully.

“Sorry. It’s just so weird,” John finally chuckled, shaking his head and moving away from Paul.

“I know, right?” Paul answered, chuckling as well.

He watched John’s small smile, his eyes, his whole face. There was no doubt.

It was him.


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot express what your comments and kudos mean to me. More than the world, honestly.  
Thank you so so so very much, and I hope you enjoy that monster of a new chapter!

As he was locking his car in his garage, Paul’s mind was majorly filled with bubbles, a layer of fear, and more bubbles. He was beyond nervous, but his legs seemed to be working on their own as they led him to the entrance of his building. He went up and got in, a bit disappointed to have arrived first. But he had barely taken his jacket off that someone rang at the door. He let out a deep breath and went to open it. On the other side, John was grinning at him, but he looked like he was mostly putting on a brave face for the show.

“Hello, Sir McCartney,” He said with a pompous voice. 

“Well, hello there, Mr. Lennon.”

“You look dashing tonight.”

“It’s not even 11am. But you look alright yourself.”

“Jesus, you won’t choke on compliments,” John chuckled, shouldering his way into the flat.

Paul laughed, closing the door after him. He followed John to the living-room and it was strange to see him back here, after everything. To know that he would not dash off suddenly. That they were alright. 

“I can’t stay too late, I want to spend the afternoon with Julian,” John told him as he was shouldering off his jacket, looking at the pictures on the walls as if he didn’t know all of them already. 

“Sure, of course.”

Paul dived his hands into his pockets, feeling a bit shy. He did not quite know how to behave. They had just agreed to come back to Paul’s place to escape the cold but they hadn’t said what they would be doing there exactly. Once his inspection was finished, John finally turned to him. His cheeks were blatantly red. Well, he was not the only one embarrassed, apparently.

“Every time you tell me something important it’s right before I’m leaving,” John started again. “Remember, when you gave me the list?”

“I was so scared. I thought you’d send me straight to a mental house,” Paul chuckled, still standing at the entrance of the room.

“I didn’t.”

“I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had.”

John smiled and looked around, rocking on his feet. 

“You can sit, you know. I‘ll get us tea,” Paul finally proposed, feeling himself blush too.

John obeyed, and Paul rushed to the kitchen, getting the teapot ready and their two usual cups out. He waited for a few seconds, leaning his hip against the counter and tapping his fingers against it, when he decided he didn’t want to lose any time not seeing John before he left. So he took the empty cups and brought them to the living-room. John was sitting at the very edge of the couch.

“When will you be in Paris, again?” He asked as he was putting the cups on the coffee table.

He raised his head to see John looking at him with a frown, a little spooked. 

“Been there, done that,” Paul explained. “In my past, we met when you went to Paris during your break.”

“I have to admit it’s a bit impressive. You’re like a cat, you have nine lives and just travel from one to the next.”

“I know. I should buy a DeLorean,” Paul joked, revelling in the smile blossoming on John’s face.

“What is that?” John chuckled.

“A car. It doesn’t exist yet. It’s from a movie about a kid going into the past.”

John’s smile grew bigger, he was clearly amused.

“Okay, stop showing off now,” He told Paul with fake reprimand.

But his smile was taking his whole face now, and Paul couldn’t take it anymore, so he strode forward and cupped his jaw to kiss him, tilting John’s head up to do it. And he didn’t know if it was the smell of his coconut shampoo, the rough feeling of his light stubble or the fact that John kissed back instantly, but Paul wanted to take a mental picture of that moment and file it under the ‘most precious memories’ category. After a few moments, he let go of John’s face and stood straighter, not knowing what to do with his arms. John looked a bit dazed.

“Sorry,” Paul chuckled, embarrassed. “Don’t know where that came from.”

John cleared his throat, shaking himself out of his daze. 

“You don’t have to apologize for that, you know,” He told him. “You, um, you’re allowed to do it. I’m… fine, with it.”

Paul nodded but fled to the kitchen to avoid having to look into his friend’s eyes. His lover. His… person. Whatever. He took out the box of tea and dropped some of it into a ball, which he lowered into the teapot. 

“So, Paris? When?” He called out, remembering there was a question at the beginning. 

“Uh, I’m not sure. Around the 16 I think. I’ll call you when I know for sure.”

When the tea was finally ready, Paul took the teapot and brought it to the living-room. John still was in the same spot, looking just as cute as before. Paul felt like an idiot just for thinking that. He sat down next to him and poured them tea. 

“What about Brian and Neil, though?” He asked John, focusing on the steaming cups. 

He chanced a glance at John, who just looked confused.

“I mean, they can be there,” Paul continued, losing all his confidence. “I don’t mind, you know, if you—”

“Oh, yes! That’s true,” John cut him off, his eyes widening in realization. Then: “Oh well, I can find a way to get rid of Neil, I guess. You take care of Brian. It’s my gift to you.”

John took his cup and started blowing on it, ignoring how Paul was doubting everything again – and Paul couldn’t be more grateful. So he only nodded and started drinking his tea too, humming quietly into it. 

“So, that means you’ll meet me up in Paris, then?”

Paul took the time to drink a large gulp of tea to think about his answer. It felt weirdly more intimate to plan their meetings, now. The sun was now flowing into the room, reflecting nicely on the teapot. 

“Yeah. If you want to, that is,” He finally answered, his voice a little rougher than usual. 

No answer came, and Paul felt something churning in his stomach. Was it too much? Was he being too pushy? Too straightforward…? He turned his head to John, who was visibly trying not to smile at his cup. He had a weird expression on his face.

“What?” Paul pressed on.

“Nothing,” John rushed to answer. “Just… I didn’t think you’d actually want to see me. Like, on purpose.”

Paul just looked at him, not sure how to react to that. But he didn’t have time to dissect John’s sentence that the other was rising up again, cup still in his hands, and was going to the record player sitting in a corner of the room. Paul watched him pick up an album – theirs, and turning it to read its back. There was something very careful and tranquil in the way he handled the object.

“I haven’t listened to it, yet” John confessed, sending a quick glance to Paul. 

“Really?” 

“Yeah. Felt weird to listen to it alone.”

Paul put his cup down and joined him in a few strides. His arm brushing against John’s – and even if it caused him to shiver lightly, he did not take it off –, he took the album from his hands and pulled out the vinyl to put it carefully on the record player. He placed the needle on it and a few moments later, the first notes of ‘Eleanor Rigby’ rose in the quiet room. The two men fell silent, simply standing next to each other and listening to the song.

“In my past, it wasn’t the first track,” Paul confessed quietly when the song was already coming to an end.

John just looked at him, studying his face once again, and looked down at the record turning below them.

“It’s a good one,” He simply answered. 

And whether it was because he was not used to compliments from John or just because of everything going on between them, Paul felt a bit emotional and avoided looking at his friend-lover. It felt natural, peaceful, to listen to music together. Their music. John’s presence had that appeasing quality that helped Paul shutting his bad thoughts off, at least for a while. When ‘I’m Only Sleeping’ started and John’s voice filled the room, he looked at the other man, who was now leaning against the table with a calm expression on his face, and felt the urge to get closer to him again. So before his brain had any chance to block and sabotage him, he went to John and engulfed him in a delicate hug. He was warm, and soft, and he smelled good, and Paul didn’t want to let go of him. John gasped in surprise, but soon enough he got up to make it easier and his arms came to slowly rest around Paul. He even rested his chin on Paul’s shoulder in a cautious gesture, their hair and ears brushing one another, as if he was not sure what was acceptable or not – and Paul guessed it was a reasonable fear. The song resonated between them, John’s singing voice soothing Paul’s nerves. He buried his head deep in John’s neck, smelling the sweet smell of his skin more than ever. What kind of psychopath loved smelling people’s skins?

“Are you trying to smother me?” John teased him, sounding a little defiant.

“Is it working?” Paul retorted without a pause.

When John only chuckled and hugged him tighter, Paul grinned to himself. 

They didn’t do much more, the whole time John stayed: they sat together on the couch, their knees pleasantly bumping against each other, just listening and commenting the songs, the arrangements, the tea, the weather, the meaning of the word ‘pot’, the new foreign secretary, the evolution of international politics in Ireland, how complicated politics were getting in the future, the new disease one of John’s aunt was convinced to have. In less than two hours, they probably talked more than they had the two months prior, and yet, when John announced he should be leaving, Paul only craved for more. He followed him into the hallway, hands in his pockets and feeling like a coy teenager again. John put on his suede jacket, grabbed the doorknob of the front door and turned to Paul. He looked a tad embarrassed himself; as if he didn’t quite know how to say goodbye. 

“So. See you in Paris then, eh?” He said with a little bit forced enthusiasm.

“Yep. I’ll be there.”

His unsure eyes were fleeting over Paul’s face, and in a quick motion he approached Paul and kissed his cheek. As he was going back to the door, Paul stopped himself from grinning like an idiot. 

“What are you, 12?” He teased him.

“Shut up. Yes. Take care,” John answered. 

Then he opened the door and in seconds, he was gone. 

“And do you sleep better?”

The therapist’s eyes were firm and earnest, and Paul wanted to squirm on his seat. He thought it over. It was still early morning, and he felt less like a zombie than he had regularly the past few months. But he knew he couldn’t honestly say he was sleeping well yet, especially with the less strong medication he was now taking. The last two days, a.k.a. since John had left for Germany, he also had been too restless to sleep properly, his thoughts running a mile a minute. His thoughts were mostly pleasant – John, John, John, and John too, still disbelievingly reeling from the newness and incredibleness of it all – but he was also scared, and nervous, and worried. So, not a great recipe for a good night of sleep.

He tapped his fingers on the armrest and noticed one bit of a nail was scratching against the material.

“Um… slightly. Not great, though,” He finally answered, his eyes zoning in on the offensive nail.

“Have you kept track of your dreams like we discussed?”

“I have, yeah,” Paul said, glancing at her with a nod, then turning his attention back to his nail, trying to take the extra bit off with his fingers. “They’re not very… uh, let’s say they’re close to the horror film category.” 

Lavenish narrowed her eyes and tilted her head. 

“What do you mean?”

Paul chuckled, forcing his eyes to stay on his therapist for a while.

“Well, blood, dead people. Me being stuck outside in the snow, being shut out by everyone. They’re not exactly pleasant reveries.”

The therapist did not answer, just widened her eyes. Paul decided to use the heavy-handed manner and bit on his nail. He started talking without really realizing it.

“The people I’ve lost keep telling me I’m lying. That I’m forgetting something. I thought it was because I might forget them, but I sort of have the opposite problem… not that it’s a problem, I don’t want to forget them, but, you know. I’m not lying to them.”

He fell quiet, and he could hear the clock from the waiting room ticking through the wall. It was a rather cosy office, but the building was clearly old. 

“Are you lying to someone else?” The therapist finally asked.

Paul wanted to laugh for a second. _Everyone_, was the first answer that popped in his head. Well, except maybe John. But he couldn’t tell her that – he couldn’t tell her he was lying about the supernatural aberration that was his life. So he went for the less invasive answer he could think of: a shrug.

Lavenish only raised a sassy eyebrow, clearly not impressed with his lack of investment in the question. Paul felt a bit called out under her gaze, and winced when he realized his finger had started bleeding a little. He looked up to the therapist. 

“We can’t be saying to truth to everyone all the time,” He chuckled diplomatically. 

“That’s true,” She conceded. “But some lies are more harmful than others. Some threaten to change who we are. Some change our relationships to people. Some are lies we say to ourselves, and those are the toughest of them all to deal with.”

Paul’s face fell unbeknownst to him.

“I’m not lying to myself,” He retorted, feeling a bit on the defensive and not really knowing why.

“I didn’t say you were.”

Paul frowned. 

“You think I’m lying to myself?”

Lavenish thought it over for a moment. 

“I think dreams of people being stuck are dreams of people striving to break free. I might not be teaching you anything here, but some lies keep people stuck. And your mind seems to think you are. Stuck.”

“Yes. Because I am,” Paul replied, irritated. 

The therapist smiled, and her whole face changed – she didn’t seem like the type to smile very often.

“You know, dreams are not an exact science. Sometimes they are very telling and sometimes they are nothing more than… transient thoughts. But whatever they are, they are not always to be taken literally. Our minds are complex, and fast, especially when we are asleep. They weave images from our deeper emotions.”

Paul let the words dawn on him, trying to get what she was trying to tell him. Lavenish gave him one last smile before uncrossing her legs. 

“I don’t know why your mind thinks you are stuck,” She continued. “But I’m not sure it’s because of the reason you’re so convinced of either.”

After his appointment, Paul was left bewildered for days. He thought therapy would help him get a clearer and healthier view on his situation, but at the moment he only felt more lost. As he was walking Martha at the park – very early, when no one was bound to recognize and approach him – he kept thinking about Dr. Lavenish’s words. Was he lying to himself? Ever since the idea had sneaked its way into his head, he couldn’t shake it off. It rang… meaningful. He couldn’t see what he was lying to himself about, but it did make sense. He wasn’t lying to his family, he wasn’t lying to John. And if he didn’t dream he was stuck because he was stuck in the past, then why would he even— 

He was about to send a stick for Martha to fetch when he froze. 

He hadn’t… He hadn’t thought about it. Why. Since his incipient days back in the past, he hadn’t thought much about _why_ he was stuck in there. John had, he realized suddenly. The first time Paul had told him, he kept asking why he had arrived back in time, especially why _then_. Maybe… could there be a reason to it? Some meaning behind his time-travelling? Was he truly here for a reason? Or even more – _because_ of some reason?

He felt something scratching his legs and looked down to see puppy-Martha whining at him, trying to reach the stick that was still in his hand, frozen in the air. He finally threw the stick and the dog darted after it. He watched the ball of fur disappearing away, feeling like a rug had been pulled out from underneath his feet. Mostly, he felt stupid. He was so busy feeling sorry for himself for being ripped away from his family that he hadn’t even tried to understand _why_. The ‘how’ part was clearly out of his league, and he had no illusions about it, but maybe John was onto something. Maybe the date of his departure – and of his arrival, meant something. After all, he had ‘left’ 2019 on August 14th, and he had arrived in 1965 on December 11th. Why that four-month difference? Why had he arrived at that specific moment? And why had he not ‘left’ in December too? 

Martha arrived back running like crazy, throwing the stick on his feet and wagging her tail so fiercely her whole body was shaking with it. He kneeled and petted her, letting her soft fur and wet nose ground him into the present. He didn’t know… he didn’t know. Why, why now, why then. At best, he could only make guesses. The realization that it could all mean something was heavy on his mind and he felt the need to breathe out slowly. Take one thing at a time. He was having a hard time accepting his desire for John already, he wasn’t exactly in the state to dive into another time-breaking, soul-searching quest in addition to it. No matter how hard he thought about it, he didn’t remember any specific detail that would explain everything. Maybe he needed to train his memory. Try to reconstruct it. He sighed and whistled to Martha, signalling her to follow him (which she didn’t exactly do, being too young and not trained yet, but she was still close enough for him to attach her leash).

He had work to do.

Waiting for the day he would go to Paris was a slow torture. He tried his best to keep his mind and body busy. He went to Liverpool to see his dad and his brother for a few days, went to visit George and Pattie a few times, spent time with a couple of friends – including Freda who had thankfully made no mention of the weird conversation with John – and worked on several original songs. He had work to do even, with the movie score project he was engaged on with George Martin. He had loved doing it the first time, and since there was not the same kind of pressure than for the Beatles albums, he felt freer to try new things, take a different approach this time around. He was however having a hard time concentrating. September was one of the hardest months, with the birthdays of two of his children one after the other and no one to share it with. The 12th and the 13th thus saw him drive to the country to walk all day long with Martha and want to call John and change his mind all evening to finally drink himself to sleep. It was painful, and hard, but the days eventually passed, and he survived them. 

Now that he was slowly coming to the conclusion that he was maybe back there for a reason, not understanding it felt like an insult to his family and everyone he had lost in the process. The dreams still woke him up at the wee hours of the morning and more than once he wished John was next door again, if only just to hear him breathe. John’s breathing was always oddly comforting. He was not shocked to discover that he missed him. He missed him a lot. So bad at times that one night he found himself listening to ‘I’m Only Sleeping’ on repeat if only just to hear his voice and remember fondly their hug from a few days before. In other words, he was pathetic. 

He had ended up telling Brian he wasn’t going to France after all, and he’d felt terrible to lie until John called him and said he’d told Neil – and Brian too, apparently – that he was going to meet up with a bird there and needed him to scram. Paul felt weird to be the secret bird in this situation, and felt bad for Neil, but it was also strangely flattering (and nerve-racking) to know that John was willing to lie to his friends just to see Paul one-on-one. At first, it seemed like lying about it only made their reunion more suspicious if anyone was to find out, but it actually was the only way they’d found on such short notice to make sure they had some time alone during the short two days. Or even just some time at all without having to worry whether they were being obvious or not. It would be their secret week-end, and Paul tried not to think about how meaningful it sounded. Especially with it being in Paris. The last time they had been there alone was practically a lifetime away, and yet Paul still remembered all of it. It had been terribly meaningful back then too – even though not for the same reasons. 

Obviously.

The day finally came, though, and Paul was buzzing with excitement. He’d been up at the break of dawn, and lied awake in bed for hours, staring at the window and wondering what would happen during those two days. This time, he really had no idea what to expect. How John would behave – how he would behave. They were not even totally clear on what they were, exactly; sure, they wanted each other, but the notion remained pretty vague, and Paul realized now that it did not help his anxiety about the whole thing. He thought taking things slow was a good idea when John had suggested it, but now he wasn’t so sure anymore. Did John _want_ want him the whole way, couple and everything, or was it just a way to say he wanted to keep the sex part and remain close friends…? At that point, he could only hope their week-end would bring him the answer. 

He’d asked his neighbour, who would keep an eye on his pets, not to mention he was leaving (pretending he was aiming for a few days of calm for once) and he knew he could trust him, the man having never failed him. He packed his bag, took his breakfast, said goodbye to Martha and Thisbe, and yet he was still so early he had to sit at the kitchen table and read the newspaper – again – to lose time. When he expectedly grew tired of it, he took one last tour of the apartment to check he hadn’t missed anything. He was only leaving for two days, but it felt like he was going on a thrilling, three-month long adventure. When he went to the bathroom, he noticed some drops of water had left marks on the mirror and he took a towel to rub them off. Unable to avoid it, he ended up staring at his own face. He had cut his hair a little the day before in the hope of being less recognizable, and seeing himself like this reminded him of the late 90s. It was still eerie, to see his own reflection, and most of the time he avoided looking at himself altogether. He poured some gomina on his fingers and prepared his hair, checked his skin for any imperfections he could hide. On a last whim, he decided to trade his white shirt for the polka dots one John had given him, hoping it would give him courage to face the day. It was undoubtedly too much, too cheesy, but John would probably not see it anyway since he was wearing a jumper over it. He finished preparing himself, feeling both excited and idiotic. He looked… young. So damn young. 

He checked the time on his watch again and it was finally late enough for him not to be ridiculously early. He put on his jacket, took his things, his suitcase. Showtime.

With his hair slicked to the side, a newsboy’s cap and fake glasses on, Paul felt like a very bad private investigator on a mission. A couple of people had recognized him in London, and he could only hope no one in the plane had, but otherwise he had arrived in France relatively easily. They had arranged to meet in the tiniest street they had heard of in Ivry-sur-Seine, the furthest point the Parisian metro reached. Paul hoped they would have less chances to be recognized there, especially by any tourists. He was really paranoid about it; meeting John was stressful enough, he didn’t want to have to deal with the aftermath of any rumours in addition to it. Hopefully John’s appearance would be discreet enough as well.

When he reached the aforementioned street, Paul stopped against the wall, hidden behind a dumpster, and was happy to notice that except for the odd lady with her shopping wheeled bag, it was completely empty. He was still uneasy and a bit jumpy, though. At some point a man came out of the front door next to him and Paul startled, but he simply ignored him, going straight down the street in the opposite direction. Paul observed the rare cars as they passed by, and enjoyed the cool weather – he even was a little too hot with his scarf but he did not care take it off. There was a small, cosy café at the corner that seemed quiet as well, they could probably settle there for a while. He wouldn’t mind a strong coffee right now. He watched the waiter come out of it to erase something on the menu board and squinted hard to see what he was writing. _Menu du jour… Bouf… No, boeuf… bourgui…gnon…_

He felt movement next to him but did not assimilate the person was staying there until their voice rose. 

“What are you looking at?”

Paul turned his head fast as lightning. Sure enough, John was leaning on his side against the wall, front to Paul, and was curiously looking in the direction of the café as well, his eyes searching the subject of Paul’s gaze. He was wearing a buttoned up dark jacket, a thin white scarf and blue jeans. He didn’t have any bags. His hair was shorter than he had ever seen it on him (well, he knew he had had it shorter than that at some point in his old life but he hadn’t actually _seen_ him then. And he was 97% sure he hadn’t cut them that short back in his first 1966), and he was wearing his round glasses, which sent a bolt of something sharp and wiggling in Paul’s stomach. It was utterly strange to see him wear _these_ again… or rather see him again with them on. It was like old John was getting closer to present John, they were mixing together a little bit more. Paul took all of him in and warmth invaded his whole being, feeling at once much calmer. He fought not to smile too wide.

“I was trying to read the board over there,” He answered simply, pointing at the café.

John followed his finger and squinted through his glasses. 

“Mmh. It says ‘we have food, come over’,” He said after a while, sounding very serious.

“No, it says ‘we have food and drinks, come over’,” Paul played along.

“Oh, yes you’re right. There’s even ‘we have hot chocolate too’ in the corner, I hadn’t noticed.”

Paul chuckled, unable to tame his smile any longer. How could this be so easy after the months of silence and awkwardness between them?

“Wanna go in?” He asked John, signalling the café with his head.

“Let’s go,” The other agreed.

Paul retrieved his suitcase and they both crossed the road, barely needing to look before doing so. They entered the café, and were pleased not to see any spark of recognition in the waiter’s eyes. Paul enjoyed the occasion to speak the few words of French he had gathered during his stay in Léchelle, and the waiter showed them a tiny table in the corner, with a view over the street. They had just taken their jackets off that the waiter was already coming to them with an expectant face. 

“Vous savez ce que vous voulez ? (1)”

Paul glanced at John, who looked a bit lost, and took charge of it.

“Oui, deux chocolats chauds s’il-vous-plaît (2),” He answered with more confidence in his voice than he actually felt, adding a charming smile on it. 

The waiter nodded and left them. More than a little proud of himself, Paul turned to see John’s raised, mocking eyebrows.

“Vanity is an ugly trait, you know,” He told him mercilessly.

Paul laughed, looking outside to show he was over this childish accusation.

“Sorry for just being my best self,” He answered, grinning smugly.

When he turned his head back to John, he was already looking at him with a weirdly intense glow in his eyes.

“Why are you so bloody cute,” He angrily-for-show muttered to himself, barely loud enough for Paul to hear.

Paul could not fight the blush blossoming on his cheeks. _Jesus, control yourself_. Thankfully the waiter arrived with their hot chocolates and diverted their attention. 

“So, how’s filming?” He started once the waiter was gone, focusing on his cup and hoping his blush would be fading away quickly.

“Boring, but the lads are nice, I guess,” John shrugged. 

“Wow, I can literally feel the motivation pour out of you.”

John laughed, a quick, joyful sound that went straight to Paul’s heart. He launched into an account of his first days in Germany, how he was just waiting bored out of his mind most of the time, how Neil had got lost in Celle one night, how the other actors kept expecting him to sing all the time. He sounded like he was not having a great time over there, and Paul thought he remembered he hadn’t enjoyed it terribly the first time around either. He wouldn’t tell John that though – he didn’t want to depress him even more.

When they finished their chocolates, they left the café in a rather cheerful mood. Except for John’s little comment, they were not behaving any differently, and Paul was relieved. It was comfortable, simple, friendly, and yet, he could see in the barely concealed glances John sent him every once in a while that it was _clear_. He wasn’t hiding – well, they were still in public so they were not doing anything that might compromise them, but still. They were not pretending, here, and it was an indescribably comforting feeling. 

They went down the little street lining a church, their conversation slowly coming to an end. They were walking side by side, a respectable distance between them, and Paul was surprised to realize he wanted to hold his hand. It was impossible, and pointless, and probably too cheesy, but he did. He still couldn’t believe how committed to _it_ he felt, now. He felt so into it that it was almost laughable to remember that just two weeks ago he was convinced he could just ignore what he was feeling and just stay good buddy-pals. He looked at John discreetly, observed his profile, the peace that emanated out of him. Funny how things could change so quick.

They both turned their heads when voices rose from the entrance of the cemetery right next to them. Down the aisle leading deeper into the cemetery, a middle-aged couple was walking. The woman had her arm through the man’s, and she was leaning against him in a chaste yet loving gesture. 

“They look happy.”

Paul stopped walking to slightly gape at John with a frown. His friend looked innocent, his eyes still lingering on the couple, but Paul knew better. This wasn’t just some off-handed comment. He knew him too well. He felt anger and shame rise in him at lightning-speed. 

“Oh no. No no no no. I see what you’re doing here. Don’t you dare put this on me. You _never_ said you wanted more. You never said _anything_,” He answered, turning to John and pointing a finger at his chest.

The look of pure astonishment on John’s face quickly gave way to indignation.

“I was flirting with you all the time!” He protested, frowning.

“No you weren’t! That’s not true!” Paul countered. 

The words started pouring out of him without him being able to do anything to stop them. They were overwhelming, dying to come out and burning everything in their path. Paul knew somewhere in his mind that they probably were long-due. 

“You might have when you were drunk, but you’re always a bit touchy-feely when you’re drunk,” He continued, staring straight into John’s frowning eyes. “And otherwise you were just being yourself, there was nothing different. You looked like it was just another… you know, like some regular business. Just another hobby at night. I’ve seen you wooing girls, don’t you think I would have seen it if you’d done the same on me?!”

“You’re not a girl, Paul!” John countered, louder.

“Ah yes, thank you, I hadn’t noticed!” Paul bit back, dry sarcasm dripping from his every pore.

John looked around them, took Paul’s elbow and led them in an also empty street a little further along the cemetery, so small only pedestrians could get in it. 

“I didn’t know how to behave with you,” John continued, lower. “One moment you were ignoring me and the next you were jumping on me to suck my dick.”

Paul grimaced, offended. Was he calling him a slag or…?

“Oh come on, it happened once!” He defended himself. “And I wasn’t _ignoring_ y—”

“Yes you were! You didn’t want to deal with me, so you were fucking ignoring me! Why are you still pretending I don’t know you by heart?!”

“I. Wasn’t. Ignoring. You,” Paul continued on his thought, glaring at John. 

But John only glared harder and Paul reflected on his own words and swallowed, annoyed.

“Okay, maybe I did, a couple of times,” He finally relented, to which John raised an eyebrow. “But I was right here the whole time. After we—” He leant closer to John and lowered his voice, checking there was still no one around them. “—kissed in Tokyo, I asked you to stay with me, I invited you to come pick up Martha with me. I wanted you… I wanted you to be close, and you just acted like nothing had happened. You said we kissed because we were drunk.”

“Yes, well, maybe that’s because you had just fucking overdosed because of me.”

That knocked the breath out of Paul, who got dizzy for a second in front of the raw hurt and fear in John’s eyes.

“No… It wasn’t… it wasn’t because of you. I told you that,” He answered, quiet.

John snorted, the sound so unhappy Paul nearly winced.

“And I was supposed to believe that? I kissed you and a few hours later you knocked yourself out with pills. It’s not hard to do the maths.” 

Paul’s hand reached for John’s arm in an instinctual desire to reassure him. To make him understand. To make him believe him.

“I was tired, and scared, and I just wanted to sleep. But I never… I didn’t regret kissing you, nor did I want to kill myself because of it. Not then, and not after. It had nothing to do with you. I promise.”

The two of them grew silent. John didn’t push off Paul’s hand, but Paul knew he didn’t quite believe him – not yet. It was painful, to know John wrongly held the blame for something so heavy. 

“I was trying… It’s like I couldn’t make you _see_. No matter what I did, what I said, you never _saw_,” John started again, quieter but with still a sharp edge to his voice, showing just how much frustration he’d accumulated over the weeks. Or probably even months. “As if you just didn’t care at all.”

“I cared,” Paul admitted quietly. 

And in that moment, he realized just how true that statement was. A memory came back to him, bringing along a sadness and disappointment he had not identified up until now. 

“Remember when we went to Liverpool? I thought we would spend the weekend together. But you just… you came back by train. It was stupid, but when you called me that morning, I felt further from you than ever.”

He turned to John and was surprised to see his eyes were dark and frowning again.

“Don’t get me started on Liverpool, I swear. Don’t you fucking get me started on fucking Liverpool.”

“What?! What did I do again?” Paul sighed, raising his arms in the air.

“You invited _me_ along and then realized, _when we fucking arrived there_, that I had nowhere to sleep. Remember, that?”

Paul fumed, restraining himself from just grabbing John and shaking him until he understood just how _unfair_ this was on him.

“I had forgotten about Mimi!” He cried out. “It was 50 years ago for me for fuck’s sake! You can’t blame me for that!”

“Well it still hurt me, didn’t it?!”

“Maybe, but driving back to London _alone_ hurt me too!”

“Oh please…!” John snorted, turning his head and shaking it.

“Why didn’t you ask me if you could sleep at my Dad’s, then? You just assumed I was bringing you to my family like… like what, my boyfriend?”

“Don’t be fucking stupid. That was months ago. You know I never assumed that. I just wanted… I was so fucking alone, and I needed you to just… be here. I just wanted you to be here.”

John dropped his head to search something in his pockets, and Paul knew he was embarrassed about his confession, but he put down his suitcase and tugged on his arm anyway, forcing the other man to face him. 

“You can’t just blame everything on me, that’s just not fair. I know I can be dense sometimes but you were never clear about what you wanted. I couldn’t just _guess_. I mean, I guess I could, but you know how dangerous it can be to just take a guess on these things! I mean, I’m used to the 2010s now and this is the 60s, you know? Things are _a lot_ different, believe me. I was already trying to understand what was going on with me, I couldn’t just magically understand what was going on with you too! You never actually _said_ anything that could—”

“I can’t believe you,” John cut him off and shaking his head in disbelief. “That is so fucking rich coming from you, of all people. Mr. ‘I say the worst things at the worst fucking times’!”

“Fuck you! I don’t!”

“And what about the first time we had sex then, huh? Remember what you said after?” John cut him off in barely a whisper, fire in his eyes, staring straight through Paul’s soul. Then he went on, badly imitating Paul’s voice: “_‘That was nice’_! You fucking wanker. You sounded like you were talking about the fucking weather. And then you just went back to your bed like you just didn’t give a shit!”

Paul felt blood rush to his neck, feeling offended for a reason beyond his grasp. He felt anger growing back in him, incontrollable.

“I didn’t know what to say, you idiot!” He retorted, his voice getting louder too. “You had come to me in the bus like you were so casual about it all, like I was just some bloody booty call!”

“I wasn’t fucking _casual_! I was scared, you arsehole!”

“Well how was I supposed to know that?! Was I supposed to just _understand_ that you wanted to be in a romantic relationship with me?!”

“Yes! It wasn’t that fucking hard!” John nearly shouted, looking rightly pissed off now.

“Alright, well I want to be in a fucking romantic relationship with you too!” Paul nearly shouted too. “Jesus!”

They both stared in silence at each other, breathing hard. Paul had clenched his fists so hard his fingers were going numb, and he could hear his heart beating in his ears. In a flash of self-consciousness, he checked around again for any lingering bystanders, but by some miracle the street was still empty. As the seconds passed, his anger was slowly ebbing away and the weight of their words was starting to dawn on him. And seeing John’s face morphing slowly into something between doubt and astonishment told him he wasn’t the only one in that case. 

“So… that means…” John finally started, his voice quiet and unsure. He cleared his throat, the embarrassed sound painful to Paul’s ears. “Are we really together for real, then? Like an actual, real couple?”

Paul swallowed, still frowning deeply and feeling very weird, a hundred emotions cursing through him at once. 

“Yes,” He answered in a strangled voice. There was still the aftermath of anger cursing through him and he felt almost like he was floating out of his body for a while. “We can, indeed… be. We are. I mean, if you’re okay with it, you know.”

John stared at him with a worried frown. He looked scared, as if he did not quite believe what was happening. But then again, Paul couldn’t quite believe it either. Then, ever so slowly, John nodded.

“Okay. We’re together, then,” He simply said.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Paul kept nodding, not quite sure how he was feeling yet. The butterflies were the slightest bit overpowered by the anger from earlier and some lingering anxiety. 

“You’re still married, though,” He suddenly blurted, his anxiety taking control of his mouth.

John just stared at him for a good ten seconds, then turned to the wall and dramatically dropped his head against it. 

“You can’t be fucking serious,” He whispered tiredly.

“You are!” Paul exclaimed with a frown. 

John raised his head to look at Paul with incredulity.

“We’re separated. You _know_ that.”

“You are still officially man and wife. You live together again. She still loves you.”

John shook his head, pursing his lips.

“That’s not my fault,” He affirmed.

Paul just stared at him, blank-faced.

“No, I mean it! I broke up with her. It’s not my fault she doesn’t want a divorce. I don’t want to be with her anymore, she knows it. She can’t blame me for going to other people.”

Paul chewed on his lip. John’s marriage was an excuse, they both knew it. But his consciousness was still nagging at him. He let out a deep sigh, figuring he just needed to brace himself and be honest about it.

“I don’t want her to hate me.”

“She is not going to hate you,” John sighed slowly. “I don’t even think she’s capable of hating anyone, to be honest. And it’s not like I’m going to run and tell her we are shagging, come on.”

Seeing Paul was still grimacing, John reached into his pocket to get his packet of cigarettes out. He took the time to take one, light it, inhale deeply and blow out the smoke before talking again.

“Okay, tell me this, then,” He said. “In your past – our future, whatever – are Cynthia and I still together?”

Paul glared at him, taking immediately a defensive position.

“You can’t ask me that. That’s not fair,” He accused John with a frown.

“Not fair on who? Cynthia? Me?... God?” 

Paul didn’t answer and approached the wall to lean against it, simply looking out to the house in front of them and trying to calm his own breathing. Through a window at the first floor, he could see the top of somebody’s head going from one room to another. It was weird to see the world outside of them just kept going, indifferent to the huge turn their relationship was taking. He felt John approaching the wall as well, and a gentle hand caressed his wrist.

“Paul, stop,” John’s voice rose again, softer. “You’re thinking too much.”

He turned to him, and was taken aback by how kind and earnest John’s eyes were. For a second, he felt safer than he had in years. 

“I’m scared,” He admitted quietly.

John squeezed his wrist and gave him a sad smile, the epitome of softness and rawness.

“I know. Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Do you already know what you'll have?  
(2) Yes, two hot chocolates, please.


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!!! So this one is a bit different from all the others, I think, but we'll see.  
Thank you so so much, all of you :'D  
and @léa pardon de ne pas t'avoir re-répondu mais je vais le faire !

John’s words resonated between them, seeping into their skin, nesting into their hearts. He was not alone.

Paul rubbed his nose and stood up which cause John to let his hand drop from his wrist. Paul enjoyed the occasion to stretch. He felt curiously more in touch with his whole body, from his belly to the tip of his fingers. As if something had cleansed him, set him back to scratch. He felt almost… lighter. Freer. He was restless, full of an energy he did not know how to name. This was a lot to process, to take in, and he was aware that he would probably not realize what was actually happening until much later. But his body seemed to be more connected to his brain, somehow. He glanced at John, whose gaze was lost on the ground. 

“Fancy a walk?” He asked him. 

John looked up, coming slowly back there, to the present moment, but not quite with Paul yet. He looked around them and nodded. Paul grabbed his suitcase and they set off.

They walked side by side for a very long time, close to an hour, silent; both lost in their thoughts. It was comfortable, though, and for once Paul did not feel the need to fill it. He probably had not been that carefree around John since his 1968. As they were inching closer to Paris and to the Seine, there was more and more people around them, but nobody seemed to mind them. Their elbows and fingers brushed a few times, but any contact in public was absolutely out of the question. Paul was conflicted about it: on one side, he wanted to enjoy the city, rediscover it with John by his side, relish just being there, but on the other side, he craved to be alone with John somewhere private. And, if he was being fully honest about it, in a bed.

They ended up following the bank of the Seine and Paul was at once overwhelmed with memories. It was odd, to see how much the city had changed; just like for London, it still had the same spirit, and yet nothing seemed to be the same. Not really. But Paris was an even eerier experience because he had lived it as a vacation, several times. He had never lived in it, and unlike London, he had preserved a very fixed, immutable memory of it. He had clear images of specific moments in his mind. So being back in it right then, in 1966, truly felt like walking in a postcard. When they arrived to the first bouquinists, Paul felt drawn to it and revelled in how typical it felt – even though he knew they were still present in 2019. John followed him without question, and soon enough both of them were leaning against the wall and observing the impassive river.

Arms crossed on the wall, Paul was watching a péniche in front of them when he felt John’s gaze drifting to him. He ignored it for a while, and then it seemed to drag for so long he just had to turn to his… John. And without surprise, the other man was unabashedly staring at him with a funny glint in his eyes.

“What are you doing?” Paul asked with an amused smile.

“Shhh. I’m enjoying it,” John simply answered.

“Enjoying what? Ogling me?”

John clearly fought back his smile.

“Without looking like a pervert, yes.”

Paul licked his lips and fake-bit on his own tongue.

“Well sorry to burst your bubble but you still quite look like a pervert,” He replied.

John squinted at him, his short fringe flying backwards because of the wind. 

“Come on, let’s go.”

“Why? We just arrived,” Paul protested, gesturing to the Seine in front of them.

“Well if we don’t go to the hotel _now_ you’re gonna have to buy me some new balls because mine are so blue they’re going to fall off any minute,” John answered lowly with a frozen smile.

Interested, tingling warmth immediately invaded Paul’s lower belly and he was more than glad to learn that he was not the only one to have bawdy things in mind. Although having John admitting it so openly was a teasing opportunity that he did not want to pass. So he just turned and put his elbow on the wall, looking at John with raised eyebrows.

“What a charmer you are. So classy, so poetic,” He finally retorted, sarcasm dripping from him. 

John rolled his eyes so hard he probably saw stars but Paul could tell he was not miffed at all.

“It’s been a long three weeks, okay?”

“So graceful,” Paul kept going, shaking his head and fighting not to smile. “I feel truly blessed.”

“Sod off. You want to go or not?”

Paul eyed the Seine and the bystanders on the banks who were blissfully ignoring them.

“I sort of want to enjoy the city, though,” He admitted – and he couldn’t help but wanting to scream at himself for still being so old in his mind sometimes.

“We can come back out later,” John proposed. “Come on, we don’t have to do anything, but I…”

He trailed off and Paul stared at him, dying to know the end of his sentence but feeling like he didn’t deserve to push for it. John sent a quick glance behind them, making sure no one was close enough to actually hear them talking.

“…I want to see you,” He finished with a quiet voice, all trace of humour gone from it.

The words were vague and could signify a hundred things, and yet Paul knew exactly what he meant. A new wave of affection came over him.

“Okay. Where to, then?”

John gave him a small smile and pushed himself off the wall to start walking towards the nearest bridge, not far from where they were. Paul grabbed his suitcase and followed him.

“I booked a room in the Marais, we can walk there.”

“You have it all planned, haven’t you,” Paul replied, his neck feeling a bit hot all of a sudden.

John glanced at him. His cheeks looked a bit red too, and the sight pleased Paul more than he could explain.

“What can I say, I’m a bold man,” He answered with a not-so-strong smile. “I asked for the cheapest double room, as Mr. Salmon. I figured… you don’t mind, right?”

There was such vulnerability and uncertainty in his eyes and in the corner of his mouth that Paul wished he could just kiss him and hug him right there and then.

“Of course not,” He answered. Then, lightly bumping his shoulder into John’s: “I would have minded if you hadn’t.”

John smiled again, and Paul had never been surer of himself. They kept on walking swiftly, facing the strong wind hitting them on the bridge. They didn’t talk much, except for pointing out funny shops or nice buildings around them. Excitement was building up in him, and when he caught John squaring his jaw and chewing on his inner cheek, he deduced he wasn’t the only one. They finally arrived at the small and very discreet hotel John had picked, just a door squished between a pharmacy and a shoes store.

Paul followed John in but in a rush of paranoia he decided to linger in the hallway, hidden behind a pillar and out of the receptionist’s sight, and wait for John to retrieve the key on his own. Better be safe than sorry. He picked up a magazine and turned the pages without even looking at them, hearing John’s faint voice at the reception. He was surprised to find pictures of a young Brigitte Bardot in the magazine and chuckled when that brought back a flood of memories. He could see teenager George, John and himself, even Pete, dreaming of meeting their own version of a Bardot someday. He had even pushed his own girlfriend to look as much as her as possible, at some point. 

All of that felt so long ago, now, it almost felt like it had happened in a dream. Back in that time, never once would he have thought he would end up dating his own friend instead… 

“Hey. You ready?” Said friend asked him, leaning against the pillar.

Paul shut the magazine, put it back on the rack and followed John towards the staircase. As they were going up to the third floor, nervousness and anticipation suddenly took hold of him, and he felt awfully self-conscious. It was real now, there was no going backwards. Not that he wanted to go backwards; but it was strange nevertheless to really realize their new situation. After around 63 years of knowing John, it was more than odd to have that specific relationship, one of the most important in his life, change like that. To watch it turn into something that much more intimate. That much more at all. 

John stopped in front of the last door of the third floor and struggled with the old key. Another hotel room, far less classy and yet Paul sort of wanted to commit every detail to memory. The brown carpeted floor, the drawings of flowers framed on the walls, the sounds of the street coming from the window at the end of the corridor. John finally managed to open the door and they both entered the room. The first thing Paul noticed was that there was only one double bed, with John’s suitcase laying on it. His first instinct was to comment on it, but then he thought better of it. Better not make the situation even more embarrassing. The sight provoked a new pike of nerves in him though, so he just went to the other side of the room, put his suitcase down on a vacant chair and got closer to the window to just look outside, over the busy street. Seeing countless people minding their own business, completely foreign to Paul’s own life, had a weird calming effect on him. It was alright. His decisions had not changed everything, had not disturbed the future of everyone else, or brought over some apocalypse. The world just kept going. 

John approached him and stopped next to him, pushing the curtain to look into the street as well.

“There’s so many people everywhere,” Paul commented. 

John just hummed. Paul took notice of how hot the room was – probably general heating, too high for that lukewarm weather – and stepped back to take off his scarf and his fake glasses, fold them on his suitcase and take off his jumper, feeling John’s gaze burning him the whole time. He folded the jumper and put it away as well, and when he came back to the window, he caught a little smile on the other man’s face. 

“You’re wearing my shirt,” John noted fondly, his hand reaching out to toy timidly with the shirt over Paul’s belly.

“You’re wearing your glasses,” Paul answered instantly, the comment dying to come out to the air.

“What?” John chuckled, his hand stilling.

Paul playfully tapped on the branch of his glasses. He realized with a start that he had never actually touched them before.

“These glasses. I know them.”

“Do you like them?”

Paul watched them closely, how different they made him look. Young and wise. Out of the world.

“They’re very… you,” He responded. Then, feeling bold, he added: “I like you either way.”

John observed him, impassive, then slowly leant in and kissed him. Nothing much, a simple pressure of lips, before he pulled away and just put his mouth against Paul’s cheek and… stayed there. He did not kiss, did not move. He just stayed against Paul’s cheek with his eyes closed, slowly breathing in, and Paul did not dare to move a muscle. Weirdly enough, it was without a doubt the most intimate gesture they had ever shared.

After a while, Paul finally dared to grab John’s jumper over his hip, tightening his fingers on the fabric. Hardly there, grounding him. John pulled back and their gazes met. His eyes were serious, deep, and Paul could barely hear the noise from the street over the buzzing in his ears. John glanced at his lips, then back in his eyes. He was there.

And then, suddenly, it was fire everywhere: on Paul’s lips, on the skin of his arms, of his neck, his jaw. The urge to touch and taste was palpable for both of them, and Paul responded to John’s kiss as if he was bringing him the answer to the universe. John pushed him back towards the bed, never letting go of his face and of his waist, his hands seeming to be in a hundred places at once. It was almost overwhelming, and Paul’s senses were burning, his skin so sensitive even his clothes felt like an aggression to it. He pushed John’s jumper and t-shirt up over his torso and John raised his arms to help him take them completely off before diving onto Paul’s shirt to unbutton it quickly. He threw the shirt away and pushed Paul on the bed to take care of his own pants and Paul’s. Paul let him do and tried to modulate his own erratic breathing. He was not really used to be in that position, since he was usually very assertive and enterprising in his sexual relations, but he found that he was happy just to watch John, his shining lips and the tender line of his nose, his muscles flexing, his collarbones sticking out on the pale flesh. It was a funny feeling, to discover a body and to already know it by heart. He and John had grown up together, and Paul had seen him naked countless times. And yet. To see him so clearly like that, in _that_ state, was miles from what he knew.

Once they were both naked, John froze and hovered over him, his arms encasing Paul’s head and his hair falling over his forehead. His eyes roamed all over Paul’s face and body. It was humbling and even destabilizing to be so vulnerable under his gaze, completely bare in the daylight, and yet Paul felt safe. He knew John would never judge his body. Would never judge him. Old John might have at some points in his life, but right then and there, his John was the safest place on Earth. 

“Look at you,” He murmured reverently.

“I can’t, eyes don’t work like that,” Paul breathed out.

At that John froze for a couple of seconds, and then the second his eyes lit up with realization he burst out laughing, falling almost completely on Paul who just laughed along. Paul enjoyed the occasion to hug him tightly, burying his nose in the short hair behind his ear. He caressed John’s back slowly, purposefully, revelling in how he could feel his lover’s hair stand up from the contact. Still laughing, John raised his head and crashed his smiling lips to Paul’s. Paul was feeling so warm all over he felt like he could just burst. He wanted to get closer, always closer, and when John started moving on him he welcomed it happily. Paul was starting to lose all connection to reality, John’s hand doing wonders, when said man abruptly stopped kissing him and dropped a soft peck on his pectoral. Paul tightened his grip on the other's waist and opened his eyes to meet his totally blown, black pupils. He looked slightly scared. 

“Do you… uh… would you like to do me?” John asked, breathless.

Paul frowned, his lips still tingling and his heart beating loudly in his ears.

“What?” He replied, feeling stupid but not quite sure what _exactly_ John was getting at.

John stood up a little on one elbow and pushed away the damp hair sticking on Paul’s forehead. Paul noticed suddenly that beyond the clear heat on his face, he was _blushing_.

“Like, you know. Get in the old-fashioned way.”

Paul gasped and just stared at him, at a loss for words. His lower belly seemed very interested in that idea.

“I’m asking you to fuck me, Paul,” John blurted out, a bit annoyed.

“Yes, yes, I got it, sorry,” Paul rushed to answer. “I… are you sure?”

John dropped his head to kiss him briefly.

“Yeah,” He confirmed. Then, with a slightly wavering yet firm voice, he added: “You must think that makes me full-on queer, huh?” 

Paul raised a hand to caress John’s cheekbone, his lips, his chin. He delicately took off his round glasses, set them aside and shook his head without even realizing it.

“I’m not judging you. Never,” He whispered, staring straight into his lover’s eyes. “I’m with you.”

That only pushed John to kiss him deeper, straddling him. Paul couldn’t stop touching him, and if someone had told him he would someday be that aroused from another man’s touch he would have laughed a lung out. After a while John raised his head – and Paul couldn’t help but follow to chase his lips – and quickly pushed himself up from the bed.

“Stay here,” He told Paul, his voice so husky it sent tingles in Paul’s belly. “Just a sec.”

On his way he took his glasses and put them on the bedside table, then grabbed his suitcase and dragged it off from the bed, still stark naked. Paul let his head fall back on the bed, having difficulty to swallow past the desire in his throat. From where he was, he could only hear John rummaging through his suitcase, and then his quick steps until he arrived bouncing in Paul’s vision, upside down and with a large mischievous smile.

“Tada!” He said, proudly brandishing a pot right under Paul’s nose. 

Paul blinked at it, the thing almost bumping into his nose. He took it by reflex and struggled to read the label on it: Vaseline. A weird feeling spread in his stomach and he brutally realized how real this was all getting. Was he really ready for that…?

“Wow,” He let out, unhelpfully. 

John jumped next to him and started kissing his belly up to his chin, which immediately relaxed Paul. When he opened his eyes and saw light brown staring into his soul, he understood John was scared too, probably even more than he was, and was only trying to build up his courage.

“Do you have condoms?” Paul asked between two gentle kisses to show John he was right there with him.

His lover-friend-boyfriend frowned then snickered.

“What, you’re afraid I’m gonna get pregnant?”

“No, but we could catch diseases,” Paul replied, the tiniest bit vexed.

“Like what?” The other man chuckled.

Paul pulled up his elbows to lean on them. He couldn’t help but be offended by John’s disregard.

“Uh, I don’t know, maybe AIDS?”

But John only frowned harder and the reason why suddenly hit Paul with violence. _Of fucking course John doesn’t know about AIDS. What a fucking idiot you are_.

“Sorry, I… Sorry, I forgot, I’m. It’s a sexually transmitted disease but I think it doesn’t even exist yet, I’m sorry.”

He sat even straighter and caressed and kissed John’s face, hoping to erase the frown still on his face. He could feel the other man’s muscles relax under his fingers. 

“You’ll tell me more about it later?” John asked, but his voice was already getting lost in a haze of pleasure. 

“Yes, promise,” Paul confirmed before diving onto his lips, licking and biting them to cast the troubled thoughts on John’s mind far, far away.

“I have some though, you can take one,” John suddenly breathed out between two kisses.

“One what?” 

“Condom, in my bag.”

Paul literally jumped on the occasion, scrambling to find the item under John’s chuckles. When he did find it, he hurried back to the bed and pinned a laughing John on it, losing no time in licking and kissing every single centimetre of skin he could find and thoroughly loving it. It was both passionate and clumsy, and Paul had rarely laughed so much during sex – be it from nerves of genuine amusement, he was not sure. Either way, it made things a thousand times easier: when they awkwardly tried to find the best angle, when Paul nearly forgot one _crucial_ step, and even when John hissed from the pain which, for a moment, was stronger than the pleasure. Paul hated seeing him wince like that, so he kissed him only deeper and deeper until John’s grunts turned to moans and Paul could finally go on. 

All things considered, it was not all _that_ different from doing it with a woman. Sure, the feeling was not exactly the same, and there was John’s own member to deal with, and John’s smell was stronger, muskier, filling his every fibre. His skin was rougher too, on his elbows, on his jaw, on his legs. And his kisses a tad more aggressive than what he was used to. But other than that, it was the same affectionate touches, the same intent. The same fire blazing everything on its path and enveloping them in a cocoon from where the rest of the world seemed meaningless, ridiculous. And most of all, it was just as amazing.

When they were done, Paul was so spent he just lied on the bed, his upper body backed against a pillow, and pushing his wet hair away from his face. John was still against him and breathing hard, their legs entangled. Acting on instinct, Paul reached his left hand out and took John’s, lacing their fingers together. John stood a bit straighter to arrange his pillow with his free hand, and when he visibly couldn’t fix it the way he wanted, he just gave up, raised their joined hands to swivel under it and laid his head on Paul’s belly, using him as a human pillow – without ever letting Paul’s hand go. Paul let out a soft chuckle and brought his other hand in his lover’s hair to pet him gently.

They stayed like that for a while, calmly letting their breathing go back to normal, both sweaty and sticky but not really minding it yet. John had his free hand on his stomach and had bent his legs to plant his feet on the bed, swaying them slowly.

“Are you okay?” Paul asked after a while, a bit worried when he thought back to John’s initial winces.

John snorted playfully. 

“Yeah. Not sure about tomorrow but for now I’m alright. Just, never forget the fingers, please.”

“Never, I swear,” Paul laughed.

Silence fell upon them again, and the outside noises slowly came back on Paul’s radar. The voices of the people in the street, the cars, two dogs barking. He had no idea what time it was, having taken off his watch at some point during their activities, but he noticed he did not really care. He brushed his thumb over John’s. Nothing could touch them right now, not even time.

“Hey, in the future… did we, um. Did this happen?” John asked suddenly, sounding painfully awkward.

Paul shuffled, embarrassed, but kept his hand in John’s hair. He knew what John was asking about, but he preferred to be sure anyway.

“Um… did what happen?”

“You know. This. Us,” John answered, gesturing vaguely at the two of them.

“No, we… No, never.”

The surprise on John’s profile surprised Paul even more.

“Really?!”

Paul frowned at him, angling his face so that they could fully lock their gazes. 

“What do you mean, ‘really’? Were you that convinced that it did? Happen?” He asked, his voice rising significantly higher. 

John shrugged but his pouting face screamed otherwise. 

“What made you think that?” Paul pushed on.

John thought it over for a while.

“I don’t know. I mean, it did take you time to understand that I wanted to date the shite out of you,” He started, pushing Paul’s arm – which only prompted Paul to push him back, “but I thought _something_ had happened in your past, between us. At least sexually, you know. For a while I even thought I was… you know, not advanced enough for you, on that level. And you were so different with me the first weeks, when you arrived. You kept staring at me all the time.”

“Well, of course I was! Can you imagine how weird it is for me to see you so… so bloody _young_?” 

_And alive_, his brain didn’t miss to complete. John nodded, looking at him with a thoughtful expression.

“So you weren’t thinking of my bum?”

Paul let out a loud laugh, shaking John too in the process.

“Sorry to disappoint, but I started thinking of your bum pretty recently,” He paused. “Doesn’t mean I don’t think about it a lot, though.”

John simply answered with a bashful smile, but there was something in his eyes Paul could not quite read. He realized with a start that he actually could just… _ask about it_. He was allowed to.

“What?” He asked him, hearing himself a bit too clearly in the quiet room.

John shook his head with a self-deprecating smile.

“Nothing. It’s stupid.” 

Paul caressed his hair, threading his fingers through his short still damp fringe.

“John. What?”

John looked at his own fingers for a while, toying with his nails. 

“It’s just… I can’t help but wonder what it was like for me, in your past. How… if things were different, or not. If I was a different person,” He paused, frowning. “Were we still friends at least, in your old days?”

A weight fell into Paul’s stomach, so acidic it sent the urge to vomit in his mouth. Vivid images of a bloodied John from his dreams and of the morning of the call from his memories flooded in his mind. His fingers froze without him noticing it, and John turned his head once again to look at him. He looked worried.

“Paul?”

Alarms were blaring in Paul’s mind. _You can’t tell him. He can’t ever know_. But he found he couldn’t lie to him – not that blatantly. 

“It hasn’t always been easy,” He settled on answering with difficulty, the words bitter and heavy on his tongue. 

“What do you—”

“I’d rather not talk about it, to be honest,” Paul cut him off, feeling awful for doing so but knowing perfectly he was incapable of talking about it. “I’m sorry, I know it must be frustrating for you, but… I can’t.”

John rose and turned to him, his frown still comfortably set on his face.

“You can’t or you don’t want to?” He asked. 

His voice was neutral and his eyes searching, and Paul couldn’t quite tell if he blamed him for it or not.

“Both,” He replied truthfully. “I’m sorry.”

John stared at him a little longer, serious. Then, finally, he gave him a little nod. He did not look satisfied with it, but at least he was leaving Paul the space he was asking for, and that reassured him. Paul pulled on their joined hands and John let himself be tugged. Paul kissed him, chastely, lingering to enjoy the taste of his lips as long as possible. John released his hand to re-arrange himself on the bed and Paul felt immediately cold, rejected, but the second he was nicely cross-legged John found his hand and laced their fingers again. Butterflies were threatening to trash the walls of Paul’s stomach. John looked at their hands, visibly lost in thoughts. Paul was about to ask him what he was thinking about when he suddenly spoke.

“What are your kids’ names?” 

Paul froze, ice invading his veins, and John seemed to sense it as he looked up and rushed to add:

“I mean, you don’t have to tell me if, you know. But I just… I’d like to know.”

“Why?” Paul asked cautiously, his voice coming out weak.

John looked taken aback for a second, as if the reason why was obvious to him. Then, he simply shrugged.

“Because, they’re a part of you. And I want to know you.”

The words crashed into Paul like a freight train. He looked into John’s genuine eyes and suddenly, a sob came out of him. He brought a hand to his eyes but the damage was already done and his whole body started shaking. He didn’t know what that typhoon of misery was, or where it was coming from, but he found himself utterly defenceless against it. It collided against his mind and made it collapse upon itself. As if his whole miserable self had seen a breach in his armour and had rushed to slip through it, back to the light, ugly and desperate. John leant closer to him, concern written all over his face.

“Love? What is it?” He asked in the gentlest voice possible.

That only made Paul cry harder and when John engulfed him in a hug, he clung to him as would a little child afraid of the monster under the bed.

“Paulie, love, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry… Just, forget I said anything, okay?”

When John’s words finally entered his brain, Paul leant back, still clutching John’s arms, and shook his head. His whole body was shaking violently.

“No, I… I want to… I want to tell you. I do. I’m just… Sorry, I don’t know what’s happening,” He confessed, tears making his voice quaver so hard it was a miracle John could understand him at all.

One of John’s hands came to rest on his cheek, caressing him in a soothing gesture and wiping his tears away. Then he sat up against the cushion, right next to Paul and brought him close to his chest again, tucking his head over Paul’s.

“Don’t apologize,” He simply said. “It’s okay.”

And really, even if it wasn’t, Paul was not sure he could do anything about it. Wrecking sobs kept coming out of him, relentless. He was not even sure what he was crying about: he could only see the faces of his children, their images in his dreams, and John’s softness like a tissue he was trying to wrap himself in. The whole time he cried, John held him.

When tears finally seemed to run out, Paul had stopped shaking, and John was still right there, a warm, solid presence against him. Paul turned his head to snuggle even closer into his neck, and dived deep into himself to find the strength to speak.

“Their names are Heather, Mary, Stella, James, and Beatrice. And they’re… were… they are incredible.”

John kissed the top of his head.

“Don’t you want to tell me something I don’t already know?” He asked. 

And he sounded so sincere it was a miracle Paul did not start crying all over again.


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! 
> 
> Sorry for posting this one so late (well, relatively)... My mind has not been feeling great at all lately, and I was not able to do much of anything, including writing. It's not much better yet, but at least I'm happy to have finally finished that chapter - I'm even quite proud of it! I hope you'll enjoy it.  
And just by the way, I fully intend to finish the fic. Nothing will stop me, not even my freaking brain :)
> 
> THANK ALL OF YOU, again and always!

It took a long time for Paul to come down from his wave of sorrow. He talked for what felt like hours, about every single detail concerning his children that would come to his mind. All of them felt crucial: from when they were born, what they looked like, or their relationships between one another to the favourite band of James and how Stella would always come up with the sassiest remarks from her youngest age. And inevitably, talking about his children led him to babble on and on about his grandchildren, which was even harder, somehow. In a way, it was the first time that he allowed himself to miss them fully. And to acknowledge the fact that even if he was separated from them, they had still existed. Still did, hopefully. Talking about them felt a little like having them with him, and the sensation brought both relief and grief to him. As if doing it was heartbreakingly painful, but also deeply necessary.

John listened to it all, asking interested questions and holding Paul a little tighter when his voice betrayed him. He was being so understanding and kind about it that Paul almost felt ashamed for having ever doubted him. Telling all of this, to John of all people, had a cathartic effect on him he had not expected. Many times in his old days he had wished John could have grown older too and be able to meet his children, his grandchildren. It had been a certainty once, that John would always be a part of his life and of his family. So to have suddenly that possibility back in his current life raised in him an emotion he was not quite sure he could name. The people he missed the more now meeting one of the persons he had missed the more before. Just hearing John pronounce Beatrice’s name left him feeling all kinds of weird.

As the sun was slowly going down behind the windows, Paul’s voice grew hoarse and his throat sore. Feeling dried out and exhausted, he barely registered John getting up to get their clothes and just grabbed what he was handed. Things were a bit of a blur for a while, and copying John’s movements seemed easier than to think about what he was doing precisely. So when they ended up both showered, dressed up and walking down the stairs of the hotel, he realized neither of them had said a word about going back out. They just… did it.

Once outside, Paul breathed deeply and was almost happy to feel the now chilly air fill his lungs. They started working, wordlessly, happy to just melt away into the crowd. Paul was not sure it was the safest decision to have come out without any disguise, now that he thought of it, but he couldn’t find in him the strength to care. Hopefully their haircuts and John’s glasses would be enough to throw people off. They browsed the streets of the Marais, curious to discover the little shops and to smell the various scents coming from the restaurants slowly waking up. It was nice, but Paul was nervous and hyper-conscious of his and John’s every movements. They were walking with a fair distance between them, but there was a nagging fear in his mind, a cold moistness in his neck that kept telling him people knew. They could look at him and just know what he had done. What he was. How depraved he had become. That waitress was looking at him weirdly. She knew, she had to—

“I should go back to London with you,” John suddenly said, bringing Paul out of his own head.

Paul turned to him and frowned, not quite following.

“You have the film to make,” He answered.

“I don’t care. I’ll quit.”

Paul observed his face and caught the little worried glance John tried to peek discreetly. Paul snorted when he understood what this was about.

“Don’t quit. You don’t have to watch over me. I’m not some fragile thing, you know.”

“Well, sorry, but you did sort of freak out. It was a bit spooky,” John retorted. “I think it’s the first time I really feel you’re not really the same Paul I was used to. Before. I mean, I’d never seen you cry like that.”

The blow was harder than expected but Paul took it in as blank-faced as possible.

“Thanks for that.”

“No, but, I don’t mean it’s wrong. At all,” John went on, softer. “Just, you know, surprising. But I’m still glad you told me and everything, really. I’m real happy to know about your brats. It’s like I know them a little too, now.” He paused, getting closer to a small book shop. “And I don’t care about the movie, anyway. I’m sure it’s gonna be a drag.”

Paul chuckled at that and looked at John, who had just stopped to observe the shop window. The tip of his nose was slightly red because of the cold. He figured telling him _one thing_ about the future wouldn’t hurt.

“If it’s going to be the same I’ve seen, I’m afraid you’re right. It won’t be great,” He confessed, a bit amused.

John turned to him with a frown.

“Really?! Fuck, what an idiot. I shouldn’t have said yes. I’d rather just go back home with you.”

Paul’s stomach did somersaults at that but he pushed the giddiness away and simply dug his fists into the pockets of his jacket. He noticed a woman coming closer to them from the corner of his eye and had barely enough time to nudge John that she was staring at said man with an awed expression.

“Bonjour, euh, excuse-me, you are John Lennon?” She asked John clumsily, her accent so thick Paul was immediately scared John would make fun of her.

But John simple stared at her, blank-faced, and shook his head.

“Nein. You’re wrong. Ich just look like him,” He told her.

The woman looked confused for a second, then when she glanced very briefly at Paul (who made sure to hide the bottom of his face in the collar of his jacket) John spoke louder, snappier.

“Ich is busy, bitte.”

The woman snapped her head to John again and blushed violently.

“Oh. Oh, pardon,” She stammered before leaving them hurriedly.

Once they were alone again, Paul pulled his chin out of his jacket and smiled at John. 

“You’re ruthless.”

John had the audacity to laugh.

“What, you’d rather I’d let her recognize you too?”

Paul shook his head and started walking again, glad when John followed him suit. It was weird how… not weird, it was. Walking around with John, visiting places. Just being, together. Paul had expected to feel strange, wrong, disgusted even, but it was like these emotions were impossible when he was around the other man. Just one look at John could appease him because he knew, more than ever, that they were there for each other. When he looked over to him, he saw the exact same person he had seen bragging at that village fête when he was 15, vibrating with joy in his father’s living-room in 1961, brutally honest in India in 1968, and awkwardly warm and yet distant in New York in 1976. As if all the versions of John in his life had only ever led to this one, right here. After all, he still was the best friend he’d ever had. The only difference now was that when he looked at him, he was overwhelmed with the desire to make him smile. To kiss him too, of course, and touch him, and hold him, and be close to him. But mostly, just to make him smile. 

They went farther and farther, getting lost in the pulsating city and its people enjoying the freedom of a Friday night. They had to shoulder their way sometimes but were still careful and guarded enough to go inconspicuous. So far, it worked, but when he crossed the scrutinizing looks of a couple of what appeared to be students, Paul discreetly manoeuvred John into a quieter alley. 

“Are you hungry?” He asked his friend, still glancing behind him to make sure the students hadn’t followed them.

“Was gonna ask you the same thing, actually.”

They agreed to go to the smallest, less crowded and less visible restaurant they could find. There was a tiny Italian place that looked empty, and when they went in they were happy to discover the owner was an old man who didn’t react at all when seeing them come in. They settled at a table, ordered and started eating in a peaceful atmosphere. Paul could feel John was just as comfortable as he was, and it was heart-warming to see nothing had changed between them. At least, shagging had not changed who they were, and Paul was almost surprised to realize how relieved he was about that. When their headless – and yet, for some reason, giddy – conversation about the different types of pasta died down, Paul quietly watched the other man struggle to cut his chicken, looking very serious. Suddenly, he remembered how scared and serious he had looked when he’d wondered if they were still friends in the future. Paul had not answered to him. Maybe now John thought they had been some sort of enemies in his past/future. Maybe he thought Paul, or at least some version of himself, had hated him. And that thought left a terribly bitter taste in his mouth. 

“You know, you asked if we were still friends in my past?” He started with force, out of the blue and feeling awkward just for voicing it. “We were. You’ve always been my friend, my whole life.”

John looked at him briefly, still quite focused on his chicken.

“Why was it not easy, then?” He replied, neutral.

“John…”

“It’s because of the band, isn’t it? And don’t you dare lie to me,” John continued, finally setting his utensils down, frowning.

“Let it go, please,” Paul sighed, avoiding John’s insistent look. “It’s complicated, but we were friends, we were fine. We _are_ fine.”

“When did the band break up, then? You can at least tell me that,” John started again. “I mean, I’m not stupid, I know the Beatles don’t exist anymore in your future. I’ve seen how scared you were on stage, and in the studio and everything. Like you had no idea how it worked. And really, I don’t see how I would be able to put up with you and your granny songs for decades.”

Paul just looked at him pointedly.

“Come on,” John pushed on, nudging him over the table. “It’s not like telling me will make it happen sooner or something. Sorry to disappoint you but you’re not a prophet.”

“Well, how would you know that?”

John just snorted, looking away. But doubts and fears suddenly submerged Paul again, and they threatened to consume him if he didn’t share some of them. He searched John’s gaze again.

“No I’m serious, how do you know what I say or don’t say doesn’t change the course of things? You want me to tell you your future, but how do you know things won’t happen the same just because we talk about them? Because then they would exist in your mind as well as in mine?” 

“That’s… that’s just stupid. You don’t control the future. Just _saying_ something won’t—”

“Great. Thanks,” Paul cut him off, feeling suddenly very offended – and mostly ashamed – to be overlooked so quickly. “Your support is fantastic right now, I’m happy to have talked with you.”

“Oh come on…!”

“No! No. I don’t want things to turn to shit, alright. I don’t want to jeopardize everything just by saying the wrong thing and jinxing it. I don’t know how all of this works, I really don’t, okay? I want to fix the bad things, and I’m trying to, but I don’t want to take any risk that might just, you know… hasten all those… bad things.”

John just looked at him seriously for a while. 

“How do you know not saying it isn’t just what might hasten it, though?” He asked calmly.

They just stared at each other for a while, a whole other conversation flowing between them through their eyes. There was something hard, and yet incredibly reassuring in John’s. _Trust me_, they seemed to tell Paul. _Trust me. I swear you can do it._ He couldn’t tell John he had died young in his past – that would be too much and too upsetting for anyone. But maybe… maybe he could talk about the disaster of 1969-1970? Not being able to talk about it with the version of John who had actually lived it was one of the most frustrating things in his life. How he wished he could have just talked to old John, lay it out all, discuss what had went wrong between them… He would never be able to do that. He knew it, and he wasn’t masochist enough to long for it. But maybe talking about it with present John could still help him exorcise it. After all, it was the same person. Wasn’t it? Maybe if Paul shared how they had failed at communicating the first time, it wouldn’t happen the same this time around.

Paul sighed deeply, absently twirling his spaghetti in his fork.

“It didn’t end well, in my past. The band,” He started, hesitant, with the weird feeling that he was breaking a law of time just by saying these words. “We all grew mad and annoyed at each other, and then there were lawyers involved because of money issues and it all went to crap. I quit in April 1970 but you had already told us months before that you wanted a divorce from us. We never played the four of us again.” 

He didn’t dare look up to John, but he could feel his gaze burning his face.

“You and I didn’t talk for several years afterwards,” He continued, his own voice sounding strangely detached to him. “It was… I hated it. With time I realized that we had all fucked up, but back then it felt like it was all my fault.” He paused, and then, with a chuckle: “Most people agreed it was, anyway.”

He let the silence slowly settle over them both, not quite as comfortable as it had been earlier. 

“It won’t happen this time,” John offered simply, after a while.

Paul looked up. John was slightly frowning at him.

“You don’t know that,” Paul snorted. “I mean, I get that it can’t happen exactly the same because things are already different and _I’m_ different, but still. It could all go wrong again. George could still end up frustrated, and Ringo could grow tired of us, and you could start hating me again–”

“I’ve never hated you,” John cut him off with emotion.

“No, I know you right now don’t, but—”

In a surprisingly confident gesture, John reached for his hand laying on the table and gripped it. Paul couldn’t help a nervous glance around the room to make sure the rare few other patrons that had arrived were not watching them.

“You’re not hearing me,” John went on. “I have never hated you. Not in my past and not in my future either. I know it – I know myself, don’t I? You might be a right tosser sometimes, but there is absolutely nothing you could do that could ever make me hate you.”

He let go of Paul quickly, as if he was suddenly embarrassed about his own emotion. Paul could only stare at him, old John’s acidic words still washing over his mind. It was hard to believe it, but he really, really wanted to. His throat was all closed up. Why was he being such an emotional mess these days? 

“I know I am mean. Sometimes. I’m stupid like that. But to be fair you can be a lot too,” John continued, going for his chicken again.

“Yeah,” Paul chuckled.

“So let’s make a deal, aye? When things are getting close to the kind of bad you’ve seen in your past, you’ll tell me, okay? And we’ll try to avoid it. And if we feel we’re getting sick of one another, or sick of the band, we try to… I don’t know. Fix it.”

He looked so convinced, so sure of himself, that Paul could not stop a little laugh to bubble out of his lips. It sounded so simple and yet still so unreachable. John lowered his head and looked at him over his glasses, and in a new weird flash, Paul could swear he was with 1970s John again.

“So? Deal?” John asked again.

Paul smiled, and his head started nodding without him even noticing it. 

“Yeah. Deal.”

When they arrived back in their hotel room later that night, Paul was nervous. He did not quite know how to behave yet, what was okay to do and what was just out of line. He could not behave with John the way he had with all his girlfriends in the past, assuredly. But he still wanted to… be romantic, a bit? He did not know to what extent, really, but at least he knew he definitely wanted to be tenderer than he had been in the previous weeks. And not just when they were having sex. But it would be weird to be touchy-feely with John, wouldn’t it? They were used to banter and easy touches, sure, but. Still. Even if they were alone, he had no idea how his friend – boyfriend, Christ, the word was so alien – would react if he just went and took his hand, or kissed his cheek for no reason or whatever. Because they were friends, before everything. They could not just drastically change their whole behaviour in one clap of fingers. 

It was very late already, and Paul had caught John yawning several times already on their way back. He announced he needed another shower, and John only hummed in answer, already busy taking off his clothes. Paul probably took longer than necessary in the shower, and was forced to turn off the current when the water was starting to feel lukewarm. His skin was loose and mushy from having stayed so long under the hot water, and in the mirror, his face looked redder than a poppy. However, knowing he could not put it off any longer, he got into his pyjamas, steeled himself and got out of the bathroom. 

The room was in the dark, apart from a tiny bedside lamp that was throwing light on the peaceful form of John. He was buried into the covers and only his tiny face and messy hair peeked out. Paul stopped in his movements, struck by how normal this all felt. It was just John, sleeping. With a single light on, as usual.

Walking on his tip toes, he got closer to the bed and opened the blanket on the free side. He got in, and the creaking bed made him wince. He glanced to John, but thankfully he seemed to be deeply gone already. Paul laid back, leaving his arms on his chest over the blanket, not sure what to do with them. Sleep was pulling on his eyelids too, so he turned on his side, back to John, and allowed his mind and body to surrender to it.

A few minutes later, as he was on the verge of sleep, he felt an arm slide on his waist, a warm body snuggle against his back and soft puffs of air tickle his nape. He fell asleep with a bashful smile on his lips. 

When he woke up, Paul was surprised to feel rested – he could not even remember having had a nightmare. He stirred, lying on his back and stretching his limbs, and it dawned on him that his legs were entangled in other clothed legs. He turned his head to his right and found himself face to face with a still asleep John, whose hand was loosely clasped on Paul’s bicep. It made him smile to see him so innocent, so small almost. The blanket was coming over his face, and Paul grabbed it to push it away. The gesture roused John, who scrunched his nose like a baby and buried it deeper into the pillow, to which Paul could only giggle. John opened a drowsy eye and turned a little again to stare at Paul. 

“Hey,” He whispered, his voice the very definition of rough.

“Hey,” Paul repeated with a smile.

And then, just because he could, he leant forwards and kissed him. It was just a second, but when he pulled back, John’s eyes were more awake and he was visibly trying not to laugh.

“Sorry,” Paul blurted out.

“Don’t apologize!” John replied, amused.

“Yeah, I know, sorry. Force of habit,” Paul added with an embarrassed chuckle.

That only made John rise on his elbows and laugh clearer. He wasn’t wearing a shirt and it made Paul even more oddly embarrassed.

“Why, did you always apologize to Jane when you kissed her?”

“You’re not Jane, though.”

There was a moment of awkwardness between them, and Paul pushed his pillow to sit up, unable to face it. He did not have time to get lost in the shame though that John was already sitting up too and scooting closer. He softly slid a hand on Paul’s cheek and forced him to face him.

“Hey,” He repeated with a tiny, shy smile when their eyes finally met.

Then he kissed Paul, breathed deeply and lingered there, their closed mouths mushed together. His thumb was barely caressing Paul’s cheekbone, and Paul’s shame was already long forgotten. Feeling bold – and his senses awakening too – Paul opened his mouth and licked his lower lip, glad when the message was well received and John deepened the kiss. They both had stale breath, and John’s chin and jaw were bristlier than ever, but he knew in that instant that it was his new favourite way of waking up.

Feeling himself getting worked up already, Paul put a calming hand on John’s chest and slowly pulled away. He wanted nothing more than to jump on John right now, but he needed to be reasonable. They only had a little more than a day left, and he wanted to make the most of it. After all, they would probably not be alone in Paris together again for a good while.

“We should get dressed, go out. Walk around, visit, you know. That kind of thing,” He told John, humming with his eyes closed when John moved his hand to caress the contour of his lips with the tip of his fingers.

“In that weather?” John asked.

Paul opened his eyes, frowning. John pointed his chin at the window and Paul turned around to follow his gaze. The sky was a dark shade of grey and it was literally pouring. Now that he actually listened, he could hear indeed the rain pounding on the glass and streaming down the gutters. Paul’s first instinctual reaction was to be disappointed.

“Not ideal, indeed,” He agreed.

“What should we do, then?”

Paul mulled it over, head resting against the headboard, before turning lazy eyes to John. Could he just…?

“Food and sex?” He proposed, his throat drying up in fear of John’s answer.

John simply searched his face, his eyes clearly glancing to Paul’s lips.

“All day?” He answered.

“All day,” Paul confirmed.

John just stared at him for a moment longer, seemingly frozen. Then, something like awe settled on his face, and Paul could see him fighting to keep it straight.

“Damn. You sure know how to talk to a man,” His friend finally let out, his voice already huskier.

Paul grinned at him and John grinned back, amusement and excitement clear as day in his shining eyes. They met in the middle to kiss sloppily, all teeth and laughter, and when John’s hand slipped under his pyjama shirt, Paul was not so disappointed that it rained anymore. 

They religiously followed through with their plan for the whole day, and the rest of their week-end went so frustratingly fast it felt like it was over in a blink. They went out again early on the Sunday morning, disguised this time, and indulged themselves with a tour of péniche. But after a last early Parisian lunch in a brasserie, they were forced to face reality: John had to leave for Spain and Paul fly back to London. They had to go back to their responsibilities, to their everyday lives. They went back to the hotel, and the whole walk back Paul’s fingers were buzzing with the desire to just reach for John’s. He knew he couldn’t if they wanted to come home unharmed – even though Paris seemed a little bit looser on queers – but he still had to stop himself several times. 

Once in their room, they both packed their things silently, and the atmosphere that had settled over them was heavy with the dread of the separation. This week-end had been a bubble, a parenthesis in their lives; they knew it wouldn’t last, couldn’t really, but coming to terms with it now that they were supposed to say goodbye was harder than expected. John was supposed to meet Neil at the airport at 3pm, so they couldn’t drag any longer. When they were ready and there was nothing else to do but to leave, they both just stared at each other in silence. They would not be able to say properly goodbye once outside, but Paul found he was unable to _do_ anything. He was embarrassed by his own sadness: he had always hated to part from his significant others, but here he felt ashamed because it was just _John_. He had parted from him a thousand times before, it was stupid to be sad because of it now. And they didn’t have a choice anyway. So he kept staring at John, not knowing what to say. After a couple of minutes, it appeared clear that John did not either, so Paul sent him a tight smile, grabbed his suitcase and went for the door.

As he was about to turn the doorknob, John stopped him with a hand on his arm. Paul turned raised eyebrows to him but John just shook his head and closed the distance between them to lay a firm kiss on his lips. There was no further intent behind it, but its heat burned Paul’s skin and for a moment he just wanted to sink in it, melt and fuse with John’s rough but warm skin. He dropped his suitcase and snaked his arms around the other man’s waist to hug him tightly, unable to stop kissing him. To smell him, a mix of coconut and manliness, to taste the mint from the toothpaste lingering on his tongue, to feel the short puffs of air from his nose. He was literally addicted to it.

“Paul,” John murmured against Paul’s lips after a while. 

But Paul only kissed him harder, refusing to hear what he was bound to say. He gently bit on John’s lower lip and angled his face to kiss him deeper, their noses softly bumping against one another.

“Paul, we need to go,” John continued in a breath, still whispering. “…Now.”

Paul reluctantly pulled back, feeling himself pout despite his will not to. John looked at him, and let out a sad sigh. He raised a hand to tap on Paul’s lips, and then slid it tenderly across Paul’s short fringe. Paul was still a bit amazed by how simple it all seemed to the other man. Affection.

“Come with me to Spain,” John suddenly blurted, and Paul could feel an anguish in his voice that pained him. 

He frowned, squeezing John’s waist.

“You know I can’t do that,” He sadly whispered.

“Why not? Neil’s coming.”

“Neil is your _assistant_.”

John’s face turned more sombre, and it took all of Paul’s strength not to snog him into oblivion again right there and then. 

“Okay, come later, then,” John went on with more force. “Ringo said he’d try to come in October. Come with him. Or earlier, if you can.”

Paul searched his eyes, saw the hope and the genuine desire in them. John was being so open and trusting with him that it was a bit stunning to be receptive of it.

“Okay,” He finally relented. “I’ll see with him.”

John grinned smugly at him and pecked him briefly on the mouth. Then he abruptly freed himself from Paul’s embrace and went to get his own suitcase. He came back to the door and flashed Paul a smile when he noticed he was still frozen in place.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Chop chop, son. Some of us have work to do,” He said, sounding like his regular prankster self.

Paul shook his head at him, a disbelieving grin on his lips.

“You’re such a twat.”

John just laughed and left the room.

Once back in London, Paul was a bit perplexed about what he was supposed to do with his days. 

Thankfully, he had the musical with George Martin to focus on, and that took up a lot of his time. Martha was beyond happy to have him back, and he spent hours and hours just walking her and training her, which procured him a joy he could not find anywhere else. He had started missing John as soon as he’d been in the plane back to England, but his emotions were getting confused again and falling back into a routine just exacerbated how separate his week-end in Paris had been from his normal day-to-day life.

As time passed, realization of what he had done slowly sunk in him and he felt helpless against the shame it brought in him. Now that he wasn’t with John, that he couldn’t calm himself just by looking at him, touching him or seeing him smile, everything that was happening between them seemed much weirder and almost uglier. He felt ashamed for having fucked John, more for having loved it, even more for knowing he would _willingly_ keep doing it, and a hundred times more for feeling ashamed of it to begin with. It was strange, how intensely he could crave something one moment only to be nearly disgusted by it the next. He kept telling himself that it was okay, he was allowed to fancy men and to date John, but the nausea was back again, nesting in the back of his stomach, and this time it was even harder to silence it. It would pass eventually, he knew it and he tried his best to talk himself into accepting it faster, but it was still tough to live with it at the moment. The hardest fact to accept was that he had spent his whole life convinced of who he was, and now he wasn’t that man anymore. He was not straight anymore. He was obviously queer, probably bisexual even, and it was real. He was acting on it. There was no shying away from it, it wasn’t possible to just dive his head in the sand like he had before. He was dating a man. He had a fucking boyfriend that no one could ever know about.

And that was _a lot_ to process.

Furthermore, now he was brutally aware of how much his mind was not used to be changed anymore. His brain was back to being young enough for his neurons to allow new connections to be created, but his sub-consciousness? Nope. Still stuck to being old, apparently. And his old sub-consciousness had spent the first freaking seventy years of his life completely and unequivocally rejecting the idea of being the slightest bit queer. He needed time to digest it, comprehend it. Accept it as something real, and allowed. Well, not by law yet, but it would come soon, he had the privilege to know that. One day, they would even be able to tell people and just… live, normally. If of course they stayed together that long, which at the moment felt more like a fantasy than anything. 

It all felt like a fantasy, was the thing. A dream-like episode. Now that he was back in London, talking to work-related people, to his family and friends, his relationship with John looked blurry. It was hard to think of his relatives and acquaintances and then think of him as his boyfriend at the same time. As if both concepts belonged in different worlds and could not possibly be fused into one. The fact that they were forced to keep it a secret only added to the confusion. What kind of future did they have? Would they just live the same and sneak in a snog here and there? They could not follow the steps heterosexual couples were entitled to. They could not just have dates, move in together, or spend time with each other’s families. They had to set rules, stick to them, be careful. It sounded so grim and exhausting Paul’s head was already hurting just thinking about it. He wanted to stay with John – that much he was sure of – and spend as much time as possible with him, but he had no idea how he would be able to fit their new relationship into his life. And even worse: how to do it without raising anyone’s suspicions.

The reassuring thing though was that for once, he couldn’t wait to talk about it with John.

September was on the verge of fading away when Paul decided to pay Brian a visit. He was trying to keep himself busy, to leave the flat every day and to see people not to dwell on his new disturbing self. Well, it was not the only reason, of course; he also missed John like crazy. He wanted to tell him about his day, to know about his, to talk about music, the world, anything. He wanted to see him, bad, and he was already feeling the withdrawing of sex. Like an addict, really. It was insane, to see how his vision of the man had changed. It had before his week-end in Paris already, but it never ceased to amaze him. However he did not really dare call him, even though he had his number, because he was always scared to be too much, too present, too invasive. He was scared people would somehow learn about it and ask questions. It was stupid – he knew it was. But he was a bit paranoid about it. So, he needed distractions. And since he still felt bad for having ditched Brian in Paris, he figured it would be nice to have a quiet occasion to just chat with the man. After all, he had missed him too. 

Paul had had the presence of mind to call first, knowing how busy Brian could be, and luckily, Brian was not working – a nice change from the man who did not count the hours. He seemed very happy to see Paul, and they settled in his living-room with fuming teas in their hands for a good part of the afternoon, talking about work at first but then slowly edging towards lighter and more personal subjects. Brian mentioned his niece and Paul was more than happy to push him into telling him more about her. Seeing the joy in his manager’s eyes then gave him some satisfaction by proxy. Perhaps he was not able to mention his own children to anyone but John, but damn if he wouldn’t allow himself to think about them every chance he could. 

“I went to see my father the other day, and my step-sister has discovered a new passion for lizards. My dad’s going insane,” Paul said after a while, smiling when he thought of the handmade palace Ruth had made for the reptilians.

“She’s a lovely little girl,” Brian smiled. He paused, then: “I’m going to spend a few days with my parents too, I think. It’s been a while. I have so much time on my hands now that you’re not touring anymore,” Brian hollowly chuckled, taking a gulp of his tea as if he didn’t really expect Paul to follow up on that information.

Paul frowned, the words sitting uncomfortably in his stomach. He felt like a thought was on the verge of his mind, but not close enough for him to grasp it.

“They’ll be happy to see you,” Paul chided in. 

“Yes, probably. My father will undoubtedly find some use for me in his garden.”

There was something so undeniably sad in that statement that Paul froze. The thought he was looking for then crashed right back into him and he suddenly remembered articles and books he had read about Brian, in later years. Talking about the end of their touring, Brian’s depression. His sudden feeling that the boys did not need him anymore. It was false, of course it was, but now that he was faced with Brian’s melancholy, it struck him how much it could be easy to believe.

“I hope you won’t forget us though,” Paul suddenly blurted out, cringing at how eager he sounded.

Brian frowned, visibly perplexed.

“You know, just because we’re not touring anymore doesn’t mean we don’t need you to look after us. At least _I_ still need you,” Paul went on.

But the frown did not leave Brian’s face, and Paul was scared he was being too dramatic about it. It was not as if Brian would magically stop worrying just because Paul told him he needed him.

“Did something happen to you?” Brian asked, bursting through Paul’s thoughts.

Paul froze. He didn’t know what he was referring to but whatever it was, it could not be good.

“What do you mean?” He asked cautiously.

Brian squinted slightly at him, and Paul noticed how his fingers curled a little tighter around his cup.

“You seem different,” Brian explained. “I’ve noticed it some time ago already, a few months even. You seem more... thoughtful. Calmer. Wiser, in a way – not that you were not. It is a bit strange really, and I cannot quite put my finger on what it is, but you seem changed.”

Paul felt his blood slowly turn to ice. He forced himself to smile, praying for his face not to betray him.

“Well, I don’t know. Maybe it’s my new diet,” He joked.

Brian responded with a small grin but his eyes were still serious. Searching. 

“You would tell me if something important was happening to you, right?” He asked. 

Paul’s smile was stuck on his face, his mind reeling. What was that about? Did he somehow _know_ he was not the same Paul…? He could not. He had no possible way of knowing.

“Of course,” He settled on answering, the muscles of his face straining to look relaxed.

Brian did not push further, but Paul was not reassured in the slightest. He thought he had been careful about his behaviour, but he could not control the details Brian was pointing out. And if Brian found him strange because of them, well, there was not much Paul could do about it. Apart from stressing, of course.

As promised, Paul phoned Ringo to know when he was planning to go to Spain. He had stressed about it beforehand, fearing it would sound weird and suspicious for him to want to tag along, just like that, but Ringo’s enthusiastic answer erased all his doubts in a second. They agreed to go together to the airport on October 3rd, thanks to Paul’s insistence that leaving on a Monday was better (the argument made absolutely no sense but thankfully Ringo did not question it). And despite that, it took all of Paul’s willpower not to ask if they could go even sooner. They would arrive in the middle of the day and wouldn’t be able to see John until late that afternoon (Ringo had called him to tell him of their plans), but they would be able to go to the house he was staying in with another actor and his wife. Apparently, John had justified not coming to Spain with Cynthia by saying Julian was only just starting pre-school and was a bit anxious about it – which was not false altogether –, so separating him from both his parents at the same time was too harsh. Paul was practically sure Cynthia would have come if John had asked her, and the thought filled him with sadness and shame.

Maureen would be there too, and Paul was both glad to see her and anxious when he realized it would be a couple’s vacation for them, whereas he would just look like a single idiot who did not know what to do with his time. He was probably thinking too much about it and no one would care about it that much, but he was still paranoid. He felt like he was constantly torn between the vital desire to see John, to just freaking appreciate him in peace and say fuck off to everything else, and the primal need to be as discreet as possible in fear of anyone finding out. It was a bit worrying: they’d been together for not even three weeks and Paul was already losing his mind with anxiety.

_Fucking finally_, the day of the departure arrived though, and Paul showed up early at the Starkey’s residence with his suitcase and a thrilled Martha by his side – he had not had the heart to leave her behind, this time. Sure, the plane would probably be a bit tough for her, but she would surely love the Spanish country. Plus, she would be a great excuse to just get out and go for extended walks.

The four of them – including Martha – drove to the airport unhindered, and as they were waiting for the plane, Paul was literally vibrating with excitement and anticipation. When Maureen asked him if everything was alright, he simply said he was a bit stressed about Martha, and she seemed to accept that reason. Maureen herself did look a bit out of it, but Paul was too absorbed by his eagerness to arrive at their destination to really pay real mind to it. According to him, everything was unbearably slow: the waiting room, the boarding, the damn flight. It seemed like it took forever, even though it was a pretty short flight. He felt like a kid on Christmas morning, waiting for everybody to wake up so he could finally open his freaking presents. They eventually arrived in Carboneras, and were driven to the house where John stayed by a member of the filming crew, accompanied by Neil. It was nice, seeing Neil again. Paul had known him since he was a schoolboy, and they had a bit lost touch in their later years before his death, so it was strange to get to hang out with him again. To discover him all over again. 

The house was not ideal, and there were apparently mice in the attic running around at night, but Paul could not care less. There was a garden Martha already loved, and as long as John would be there he was fine with it. He settled in the smallest bedroom, and then they all met the wife of Michael Crawford, John’s fellow actor. Maureen and she soon hit it off, and they decided at once to go out to buy something nice for supper that very night, with Neil as a chauffeur/guide. It saddened Paul a bit to realize that for them it was normal that as women, they were automatically designated to prepare meals. But they left so fast he had not really time to realize what was going on, and soon enough he found himself alone with Ringo in the big house.

Paul went to the garden to play fetch with Martha for a while – it was a good way to run around too and divert his pent-up energy. The weather was a bit milder than in England, and apart from a light wind, they could stay in thin jumpers without having their teeth chattering.

“Man, I’m knackered,” Ringo told him as he was joining Paul in the garden. 

“Flying is the worst,” Paul replied, even though he had nothing specific against planes.

“Yeah…” Ringo answered, his voice sounding a bit off.

That got Paul to turn around and face his friend with a little frown.

“You alright?” He asked him.

Ringo sent him a tight smile.

“Yeah, good. Just, we had a bit of a row with Mo last night. It was a bit ugly.”

Martha came running back forcefully into Paul’s legs but he ignored her, his attention focused on Ringo. 

“What happened?”

“Oh it was stupid, just a fight about the kid and then it got out of hands. You know how it is,” He explained. Then, after a pause: “I guess I should apologize but, you know.”

Paul swallowed, reflecting on what the best course of action was in these situations.

“Do it before it gets too late, then,” He finally answered.

Ringo laughed humourlessly.

“Yeah. I should, yeah.”

He scooted to pat Martha on the head, and then retreated back to the house. 

“I’m going to take a nap,” He told Paul with a wave. “Wake me up when the girls come back.”

“Sure!”

He watched his friend disappear inside, and turned to the happy puppy with her tongue hanging out. He played with her a while longer, his thoughts for once not solely focused on his children and on John, but on Ringo too. He did not know much about his marriage with Mo - Ringo had always been a quite private man. He just knew that it had not ended because they did not love each other anymore, which to him was even sadder than a traditional divorce.

An hour or so later, Paul was still in the garden when he was startled by a loud noise coming from the house, following by a loud shriek. Martha yelped and he froze, instantly terrified, before rushing to the house. His heart was beating wildly in his ears, and he thought to stop in the kitchen to grab a cleaver before going up the stairs. Had someone come into the house without him noticing?! Had they attacked Ringo?! _Oh God, please let him be safe, please…_

He tip-toed into the first floor’s corridor, his heart and his own breathing sounding horribly loud in his head. The cleave clasped tight in both his hands, he was steeling himself for whatever was waiting for him. A thousand gruesome scenarios were already playing in his head, and none of them had a happy ending. Terror was gripping his guts and crushing them to dust.

He was not even sure which bedroom was Ringo’s but he did not need to wonder for long: as he was passing before one open door, he was suddenly brutally tackled against the wall. The cleaver went flying in the air and Paul’s breath was knocked out of him. The person was pushing him against the wall and trying to choke him – or maybe push him towards the stairs, it was not very clear. Paul gripped his assailant’s arms, trying to get them off of him, and it took him a good few seconds to recognize the person.

“Ringo?! What the fuck?!” He wheezed out in shock.

Ringo immediately stopped pushing him and pulled back to look at Paul’s face. He froze, staring at Paul’s whole body with wide eyes. Paul could only frown and gape at him, without a clue of what the fuck was going on.

“Paul?” Ringo asked in a quiet, disbelieving voice. 

Paul loosened his grip on Ringo’s arms and suddenly noticed his friend had started shaking like a leaf. When their gazes met, Paul’s eyes widened in shock. He recognized that look of utter terror and confusion. 

He’d lived it himself ten months prior.


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will answer to your comments, I will!  
Thank you so much again, I can't believe the reception of the last chapter :')  
I'm glad the cliffhanger worked :D

They stared at each other.

The silence was so thick they could hear the wind in the trees outside, despite the closed windows. They stared at each other for agonizing seconds and Paul was afraid to move, or to even breathe. A thousand questions were swarming in his mind, but the prominent one was: What the fuck?!

Ringo looked confused, lost, disoriented. All those feelings, he’d felt them too when he first arrived back in the past. Could Ringo be from the future too? His future? Or maybe, not as far in the future as Paul? Or maybe from another timeline altogether? Could he be not alone after all…? The thought was dizzying.

He could still feel Ringo shaking under his fingers but he did not dare let him go fully. He did not dare do anything, at this point. When the first moment of shock passed, Ringo looked at Paul’s hands on his arms and shook him off, frantic.

“Let go of me! What’s going on?!” Ringo asked, his tone pressing and verging on hysterical. 

His voice rose as he was talking, faster and faster. 

“Where… Wh— What did you do to me?! Who the fuck are you?! Why am I here?!”

He nearly shouted these last words and Paul raised his arms in defence, his own heart beating wildly in his chest. 

“Calm down, I don’t—”

“Don’t tell me to calm down! _What's happening?!_” Ringo yelled, frenetic, backing into the wall.

“_Would you stop yelling at me?!_” Paul yelled back.

That seemed to sober Ringo a bit and he shut his mouth tightly, his lips clearly quivering. He was obviously panicking, and Paul was entering a panic too just by looking at him. He had no idea what was going on either, but it made him incredibly anxious to see the terror and anguish in his friend’s eyes.

“Is… is it really you?” Ringo finally asked, his voice still quite loud but trembling.

Paul hesitated. Ringo looked like he was shaking more and more by the minute. Maybe he was having an actual seizure. Should he like, call an ambulance or something…?! Was he reading all of this wrong?

“It is but… I don’t know? I mean yes, I’m me, but I don’t know if I am the ‘me’ you think I am,” He answered slowly, not looking away from his friend’s blue eyes.

Ringo frowned at him. He looked beyond perplexed. 

“…What?” 

Oh God. Paul was reading it wrong, wasn’t he? And now he was just being the stupidest git in the world. He was just so desperate and alone in his situation that he was now projecting what he wanted to see onto his friend. In front of him, Ringo was still staring at him, his eyes the size of saucers, shining with fear. Paul sighed, letting his arms drop at his sides.

“Look it’s me, okay? Paul. Paul McCartney. But are you alright? Are you hurt…?”

He stood up from his slouched position against the wall and took one step closer to him but Ringo winced and recoiled slightly. It caught Paul off guard and he froze, feeling a bit offended.

“Calm down, I’m not going to hurt you!”

Ringo mirrored his frown and, looking still very much freaked out, searched the corridor with his gaze and pointed at the cleave that was lying threateningly on the floor, further away.

“Why did you bring that bloody thing then?” Ringo bit back.

Paul looked at the instrument and froze. That was indeed a bit incriminating.

“Okay, I get why that looks suspicious, but for my defence I thought you were getting murdered,” He explained. Then, with a frown: “You scared me, bloody screaming like that!”

“You’re lying,” Ringo squinted at him. “Who the hell are you? What is this?! Am I dreaming?” 

He paused, looked around him and noticed his own hands, his clothes. He looked up, alarmed, and pointed an accusatory finger to Paul, his voice rising again.

“…Did you drug me?! Tell me!”

“Jesus, I didn’t do anything to you, you git! Just calm down for fuck’s sake!”

Ringo did not answer, still staring at Paul so hard Paul felt like his gaze could pierce through him like a laser and make his skull melt away. Paul stared just as straightforwardly, breathing hard and feeling upset too, now. After a while, he saw something shift in Ringo’s eyes and his features softened a bit.

“It _is_ really you,” He said quietly, flabbergasted.

Paul thought fleetingly that he looked a bit paler than a moment ago, and the next second Ringo was swaying on his feet, as if all his nerves were snapping at once. Paul reached a hand out but Ringo did too and leant on the wall. He was white as a sheet. If Paul was right, he was probably completely overwhelmed. A thought flashed through his mind: the girls and Neil would be back soon, any moment now. If they saw Ringo in that state, uncomfortable questions would follow. And if he was right, seeing them would throw Ringo in for another loop. He made a decision in a split second and took Ringo’s wrist.

“Come with me.”

Ringo sent him a wild look, but Paul shook his head, feeling grave all of a sudden.

“Come on. Trust me, you’re not going to like being here in a few minutes.”

But Ringo just kept staring at him. He did not seem convinced, but he was probably too in shock to really realize what was happening anyway, so Paul chose not to lose any more time and just dragged him down the stairs. Ringo went along, a bit unstable on his feet, clearly out of it. Once in the hallway, Paul quickly checked through the window to see if the car of the others was back yet, and when he saw it wasn’t he pulled Ringo outside, towards the road. 

They were in a pretty secluded residence and he didn’t know the area _at all_, but he went towards the end of the road, seeing a cluster of trees there that promised the beginning of some sort of woods. They both entered it, and Paul realized when he heard Ringo bump into a branch that he was walking particularly fast, driven by his own anxiety-filled excitement. He slowed down a bit and let go of Ringo’s wrist. They were now in a sort of pine forest, completely alone. He stopped, abruptly, and turned to his friend. 

Ringo went to sit limply on a log, head in his hands and rubbing it harshly. He did not say anything, but Paul could see how he was shaking still. It took him a while to realize his friend was actually whispering to himself.

“This is a nightmare… it can’t… wake up, just wake up you idiot…”

Paul approached him slowly. He didn’t want to spook him, but he couldn’t wait any longer. He needed to know, despite the risk of looking like a right lunatic. He calculated in his head how much time had passed since he had arrived.

He cleared his throat and for the briefest second, he realized he didn’t even know if he wanted to be right or not.

“Look, I… I have a question for you,” He started nevertheless – and Ringo’s head snapped up instantly. “It might sound really, really weird, but—” He cut himself, his voice quivering. “Are you… Are you from 2020…?”

After a few seconds of stupor, something clicked in Ringo’s eyes and let in a wave of emotions. Among fear, surprise and wonder, one stood out and drowned all the others: relief. Ringo stood up in a flash and opened his mouth, but nothing came out for a moment. Paul waited patiently, feeling his friend’s relief flooding into his own veins. 

“You… Are you…?” Ringo sputtered.

Paul rushed closer to him and took his shaking hands into his. Ringo immediately grasped him back, holding on for dear life. It was unbelievable. The whole thing was completely unbelievable.

“Yes!” Paul let out with difficulty, emotions threatening to take him over. “Yes, yes, me too!”

“You were there too? You just woke up here too, out of nowhere?!”

“Yes! Yes I did!” Paul nodded frantically.

“Oh my God…!” Ringo breathed out.

He took in Paul’s features, his hair, his body. Paul was still holding onto him, and it felt like if either of them let go, they would vanish into nothingness, scatter into a million pieces of bones and flesh and fall into a void where time meant nothing anymore. The only thing keeping them in the present, together, was the contact of skin on skin, the sound of their breathing, the vibrations of their voices.

“But why are you so _fucking young_?!” Ringo asked with so much disbelief and alarm in his voice that it had risen a couple of tones higher.

“Because I’m 24. _Again_!” Paul answered, just as frantic.

Ringo frowned hard, his whole face a grimace.

“Twenty-f—?! …But how—? I don’t understand… When are we—?!”

Paul sighed, knowing this was the last blow. The defining moment. He squeezed Ringo’s hands, and breathed deeply before answering:

“We’re in 1966.” 

Ringo just stared at him for a couple of seconds, then let go of Paul and brought his hands to his face to walk a few steps away, his back to Paul. Paul let him take time to process the words, breathe them in – even though there seemed to be never enough time to _understand_ all of this. He knew how overwhelmed he had to be. After a while though, Ringo turned around and resumed his staring, incredulity in his every pore. His face had lost every last bit of colour. 

“But… how?” He asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” Paul shook his head, sadly. “But it’s real. You’re really here. We’re really here. And so is everyone else.”

Ringo’s eyes widened comically.

“Them too?!”

“No, no, I mean. They’re normal. It’s just us two, we are… back, you know. Back to our past. Sort of.” 

Ringo looked down at his feet, frowning hard, and Paul could practically see his brain turning at full speed inside his head. He recalled what he was thinking when himself arrived, the questions that kept twirling in his mind. At least maybe he could help Ringo process it, make it smoother for him. Easier. His stomach churned, acid drizzling through his trachea. To make it easier, they had to breach the hardest topics.

“They’re alive, Richie,” He said quietly, observing his friend with caution.

Ringo’s eyes frowned then widened, and Paul saw the exact moment he _understood_.

“All of them…?” He asked in a breathless whisper.

Paul nodded, emotion settling right up in his own throat. Ringo looked down, pale as a ghost and totally overwhelmed. Paul’s own heart was beating so wildly he felt like had just finished a marathon. He wished he could just see what was going on in his friend’s mind, but he also knew this was a very personal realization to make. Something so profoundly intimate that it could – and should – not be shared. 

After a very long while, Ringo started speaking again, quietly.

“I’m not from 2020.”

“What?”

“You asked me if I was from 2020. I’m not. I’m… I was in 2019 just a few hours ago,” His friend struggled to explain, his voice suddenly much more tired and low.

Paul frowned. It wouldn’t be surprising in itself if time worked differently for them, but the fact that so many months could have only translated in five at most in the future made him feel very weird. Perhaps time went faster in the past than it did in the future. Or perhaps… Perhaps he had been wrong from the beginning. Perhaps he was actually dead, and was just reliving his past as part of his afterlife. Perhaps none of it meant anything and this was just his dead consciousness floating through what could have been. He pushed past the dryness of his throat, trying to find his voice back. He needed to have answers, however painful they could be.

“Can I ask… um, how am I? In the future? Am I dead?”

Ringo frowned too, shaking his head slowly.

“No. You’re fine. At least you were last time I talked to you, a few weeks ago.”

The two of them fell in a new silence, confusion swirling in both their heads.

“When are we, precisely?” Ringo asked after a while.

“October 3rd.”

Paul expected surprise, but not the fleeting anger on his friend’s face.

“What, October?! I was in still in August! How did I just lose two damn months?!” Ringo let out, as if time had personally offended him. “Did I just fall into a coma or something…?”

But Paul was not listening anymore. Something was definitely not right with those dates. What if…?

“What day of August?”

“Uh, it was the 14th. Why?”

A shiver went through Paul’s whole body. 

“Me too,” He said slowly as realization came upon him. “I went to bed on the 14th of August 2019, woke up here on the evening of December 11th, 1965. But why would _you_ arrive only now?” 

At this point he was more talking to himself than to Ringo, but he still didn’t miss how his friend’s face was falling even more, if that was possible.

“So you’ve been here for ten months…?” He probed, sounding small.

His sadness was pouring out of him, contaminating every space and particle around him. Paul just nodded. Hearing that statement was more heart-breaking and unsettling than he would have ever thought. He found he could not hold Ringo’s so familiar gaze and looked away, almost ashamed. He had not realized until now how much you could recognize someone’s experiences solely in their eyes.

“Are you sure there isn’t anyone else?”

“Not that I know of,” He admitted, shaking his head. 

He hesitated, glanced briefly at Ringo. 

“But I’ve told John.”

He looked up for real and found Ringo gaping at him.

“You told John…? As in, John Lennon?” He whispered, as if someone might arrive and overhear them. “You told John Lennon?”

“Yeah well I was going insane,” Paul defended himself, whispering too by reflex. “What was I supposed to do, just blow my head off?!” 

He breathed out slowly and forced himself to calm down. 

“I couldn’t just… I needed someone,” He confessed, at last.

A moment passed, but Paul was embarrassed. It felt like admitting a weakness, an unforgivable mistake almost, even though he knew anyone in his situation would have needed support. Someone to rely on. Someone to confirm he actually existed, all of himself. He glanced at the pines around them. Immobile, unfazed, indifferent to the turmoil they were living. When Ringo’s voice broke out the silence again, it was calmer.

“Did he believe you?”

“Not at first. But I told him about random things that would happen, and… yeah.”

Silence settled over them, heavy, 

“I’m sorry. I guess… that must have been very lonely for you,” Ringo offered after a while.

His eyes were shining, and it took a moment for Paul to notice the moistness in his own eyes.

“I thought I was dead, you know. At the beginning. Then for a while I thought I had just gone completely insane,” He confessed in a chuckle.

“Maybe we are. Dead, I mean,” The other man bounced back.

“And we would have died at the exact same moment?” Paul snorted.

Ringo shrugged.

“Stranger things have happened.”

Both men fell silent, confused reflections clouding their minds. Paul was reeling; having old Ringo here with him was the proof that he wasn’t insane. He truly was from the future, everything he remembered had happened. It was all real: if he had ever doubted it, now the proof was indisputable. A new thought then crossed his mind.

Things had already changed a lot, in his present. The future he had lived in his past – and his mind was hurting just thinking these words – did not match his present anymore. So if he was changing things, and that Ringo was coming from the same future, his memories should match the new present Paul was creating, right? He should not have lived Manila. He should remember Paul and Jane had split up in late 1965, and not in 1968 like in Paul’s first past. Perhaps it was more complicated than that, considering the fact that Paul’s memories had not changed to match the present he was creating either. But maybe… maybe Ringo was from a different future than the one Paul himself was coming from. Maybe, future Ringo’s past matched Paul’s present. And there was an easy way to find out if that was the case.

“Do you remember George’s baby?” Paul suddenly asked Ringo.

His friend looked up, somehow looking even more confused.

“You mean Dhani? I know I may be getting senile but—”

“No, no, the one with Pattie?”

Ringo looked at him for a while, sombre. 

“They never had kids together. I don’t understand. Are you having me on…?”

Paul looked at him for a while, and then relief crashed into him like a train. He started chuckling uncontrollably, raking his hands in his hair.

“Oh my God…!” He wheezed out.

“Why are you laughing? What’s funny?” Ringo frowned again.

“I’m not changing anything! I’m not changing a fucking thing! They still exist! Oh my _God_…”

He turned to walk in circles, feeling restless all of a sudden.

“Who?” Ringo pressed on.

“My kids!” Paul beamed. “My kids still exist!”

Ringo’s expression was so confused that it finally dawned on Paul that it had taken him months to understand his situation and to draw certain conclusions. _Months_.

“I thought me being here was changing the future,” He started explaining, frantic. “Things are so different already, and… God… I thought my kids had stopped existing. I thought I had created some time paradox or something! But if you have the same memories I have, it means our past – our future, from now on – hasn’t changed! They’re still living, somewhere, in some other life!”

Ringo looked down, visibly lost in thoughts. Paul was hyperventilating. This was… this was a lot. It was so strange to think that just an hour ago he was talking to Ringo, and now he was with another version of him who would have no memory whatsoever of their conversation. As if he was a whole new person, coming straight from his old life. Someone who knew about the break-up, about John’s death, about Linda. Someone who had seen George dwindle away. Who remembered 9/11, Thatcher, the London Olympics. Someone who had lived all these things that now only existed in Paul’s mind. Having him here did not confirm a 100% that the future had not changed – considering Ringo had left it at the same time as Paul, somehow – but it was positive. A good sign. Somewhere, in some other timeline, there was a huge chance that his children and grandchildren were still alive. 

The downside of it all was hard, nevertheless. Because if the future kept happening in some timeline, it meant George, John and Linda were still dead there. The thought sobered him at once. He had not realized that. It was not really a shock, since it was hardly news, and he had long accepted the fact that he might not be able to really _save_ them, but still. Their sad – and gruesome, for John – destiny was still on, somewhere. And his wife… she was all alone, in the future they had left. Maybe grieving for him, if he had just vanished from one moment to—

“Does that mean the young versions of ourselves are stuck in the future?”

Paul froze. He turned slowly to Ringo.

“…What?”

Ringo searched his eyes, thinking hard too.

“Well, if you and I are here and the pres—past, um, 2019, still goes on, that means we are still present there, doesn’t it? I mean, some… forms of ourselves? And if our selves from here are not here anymore, well… they have to be somewhere, don’t they? Like, maybe we just swapped?” He expanded, visibly struggling to voice his thoughts clearly.

Paul stared at him for a long time. He had… not thought about that. During the ten months he had spent back in the past, he had _not once_ thought about where past Paul had gone. Until now he didn’t think there were several timelines, several futures, so he thought he had just sort of rewinded his own life. As if there was only solution possible. As if the simple fact that he had travelled back in fucking time was not the proof that time was messy and complicated and there just _had to be_ more possibilities. In that instant, he felt the stupidest he ever had in his entire life. 

Was Ringo right? Was there a poor clueless 1965 Paul stuck in the future? In the body of an old man, with almost everyone he loved long gone, with no band, no voice anymore, surrounded by futuristic technology and with an endless string of kids…?! A cold, nasty shiver rolled through him at the thought. If he had to choose, his own position was undoubtedly better than _his_.

He forced his vision to re-focus and he caught Ringo’s worried and still freaked out gaze.

“I, uh… I hadn’t thought about that,” He confessed softly.

Ringo sighed, sitting back down on his log. Paul watched him closely: he had his 26-year-old body, and somehow, in his posture, in his expression, even in the way he was sighing, Paul could recognize his old friend from 2019. The one who had lived a whole life. He could see it clearly – probably even more since he had spent the whole day with him. He wondered what it must have been like for everyone else when himself had arrived. If they had thought he was weird, totally changed. An alien. Maybe that explained why everyone kept looking at him as if he would explode any minute, at the beginning. Why John would always be staring at him with a weird expression. 

“And where are we, here?” Ringo asked again, his voice so weary it hurt Paul’s soul.

“Carborenas, in Spain. For John’s war movie, you know.”

“Oh… OK. Damn,” He rubbed his face, then sighed again. “Sorry. I didn’t remember you were there. Back then.”

“I wasn’t. I just came this time.”

Ringo frowned again, the gesture close to be permanently engraved on his forehead.

“Are things a lot different?”

Paul looked down and shrugged, prodding some twigs with his foot. His neck felt hot but hopefully he looked casual enough.

“Not that much. Pattie’s pregnant, that’s the biggest thing. And, um, I don’t know… We didn’t go to Manila, so that’s nice. I was glad not to get through that again.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Ringo chuckled, though the sound was not happy at all. “You’re doing it all again then? A Beatle and everything?”

The question was loaded – Paul knew these questions had arisen quite early in his mind too, when he’d arrived. Maybe Ringo wouldn’t want to get into all of that again. After all, he was not as addicted to music and work as Paul was. And now, just copying everything from their past seemed even more futile. Not natural. The future of the band was more endangered than ever, with two of his musicians _coming from the bloody future_.

“Yeah,” He still answered, realizing he did need to speak out at some point. “I didn’t know what else to do. And… it’s nice, you know. To get to do the nice things again.”

Ringo silently observed him for a while. 

“The bad ones too,” He finally replied on a careful tone.

“The bad ones too,” Paul simply confirmed.

Silence came over them again. The sky was getting darker already around them. Paul glanced at his watch and noticed it was getting quite late indeed. He shook himself in a vain attempt to evacuate the tension all over his body. 

“If you feel ready… We should go back home. Maureen and the others are probably back by now.”

“Maureen is…?” Ringo murmured, dumbfounded. “Oh my God, I’m not… I can’t… I’m not ready for this… How did you do this?!”

Paul chuckled sadly. 

“I don’t know. I ran away. And then, just… I don’t know. You get used to it, eventually.” He paused, then: “But now we should go home, you know. Really.”

Ringo nodded, visibly bracing himself. He got up and just as Paul was about to leave, he grasped his sleeve. 

“You… You’ll help me, right? You’ll tell me things, when I don’t remember?” He asked in a small voice. 

Paul smiled warmly to him. In a way, it was reassuring to see he was not the only one scared out of his mind by this situation. He was not alone anymore.

“Of course. Of course I will. We’re in this together, right?”

Ringo nodded again, and seemed a tiny bit reassured. Or at least, stronger on his feet. Paul nodded to him again and finally led the way out of the forest. His heart was heavy in his chest.

Watching Ringo ‘reunite’ with Maureen had Paul near tears: the struck look on his face, his shaking (Paul could tell he was trying his hardest to tame it) when he embraced her, the barely concealed awe in his voice. He looked beyond overwhelmed and only let go of Maureen reluctantly when Maureen herself was almost getting uneasy. The others were laughing it off of course, Maureen included, and Paul justified it by saying he’d gone a bit too strong on weed. A poor excuse, but it would do. It had to. His first meeting with Neil was something too. Ringo had frozen a good while when he’d seen him – until Paul had slapped on his back, trying to bring him back down to Earth. It was all so moving Paul himself felt a little like he was coming back all over again, too. He had been here for so long that he sort of forgot it, sometimes. His lives were a bit merged in his mind, and the junction was made easier with the presence of John, his anchor. But for Ringo it was all very new and very real, and it hit again how extraordinary all of this was. Even more, now.

After a while, Maureen and Gabrielle, Michael Crawford’s wife, went off to the kitchen – refusing for some reason Paul’s help – and the three men were left on their own in the living-room. It was a good thing Neil was a chatterbox because Ringo seemed incapable of participating to the conversation, too busy gawking at their friend. Paul stayed sitting next to him on the couch the whole time, discreetly glancing at him once in a while, ready to help or comfort him if needed.

Ringo’s arrival took so much space in his mind that when the lights of a car appeared outside and a motor died down, Paul was confused for a moment as to who it was. In his back, a door creaked opened and a nasal voice floated to his ears. The instant he heard it, his heart swelled and realisation smacked him in the face. He forced himself not to get up excitedly, trying not to look too obvious, and suddenly John and Michael were entering the room. 

“Hello everyone!” Michael started with a booming voice, going straight to Ringo and Paul to shake their hands. “I’m Michael, nice to meet you. Wow, we nearly have all of you, don’t we!”

“Hello, fellow human beings,” John added, setting his jacket down on a chair and avoiding everyone’s eyes.

Paul saw an overwhelmed Ringo shaking Michael’s hand from the corner of his eye, but he had trouble looking anywhere other than at John. Short-haired, glasses in the shirt pocket, smiling, bloody gorgeous John. Paul shook Michael’s hand distractedly and turned to Ringo, who was unsurprisingly staring wide-eyed at John. The look on his face was so emotional it was hard to describe: a mixture of elation, awe, sadness and pain. Paul was not surprised to detect a glimmer in his eyes, and swooped in to divert the others’ attention from it.

“Excuse Rings, he’s a bit out of it tonight, but he's alright,” He said, glancing at John – he couldn’t wait to get him aside to tell him.

John smiled at that, and Paul realized with a sharp ping in his chest that he had not looked directly at Paul yet. As Michael was going to the kitchen to greet the others, Paul prayed for Neil to follow him. He waited a few seconds, and when he understood the other man was not planning on leaving anytime soon, he searched for something to say.

“I think Mo has called you, Neil,” He suddenly blurted. 

He wanted to smack himself the second he’d said it, but kept a straight face, pointing at the kitchen.

“Has she? Oh, didn’t hear it. Sorry lads,” Neil said before leaving for said kitchen.

He disappeared from the room and Paul turned to see John getting up from taking off his shoes and looking at Paul with confused frown. 

“She hasn’t cal—” He started.

“Ringo’s just arrived from the future too,” Paul cut him off in a whisper. 

He felt more than he saw Ringo blindly nodding beside him, a hand over his mouth, but he couldn’t help but focus on John’s (beautiful) face. John just gaped, completely stunned, and turned blinking eyes between Ringo and Paul.

“You… What? H—what?”

“Jesus. John… Can I hug you?” Ringo let out with a strangled voice.

John nodded, still a bit confused, and Ringo basically threw himself in his arms, hugging him so hard Paul could almost hear his bones crack. Paul met John’s eyes, and the confusion in them was begging for some clarification. 

“He’s from 2019,” Paul continued lowly, choosing to ignore how Ringo had transformed into a human octopus. “He went for a nap and woke up screaming like a lunatic. He almost pushed me off the stairs.”

“You should not have brought a freaking cleave, then,” Ringo mumbled from his spot on John’s shoulder.

John threw Paul an amused glance, even if confusion was still the main emotion on his face.

“Yeah, well, whatever. You’re here with us now,” Paul retorted. “I don’t even understand how that’s possible… I can’t even, the odds—”

“It’s a bloody invasion, then, is it,” John said with a strange voice when Ringo finally let go of him, still clasping his arms and looking at him as if he was looking at the Mona Lisa. “Alright, I know I’m young and dashing but stop gawking at me, you moron.”

Ringo chuckled briefly, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. Noise rose from the kitchen and soon enough the others were coming and bringing in various plates of food, all talking animatedly and oblivious to the turmoil of the three bandmates. They all settled around the table in a loud chatter, and Paul followed the flow, keeping a close eye on Ringo who looked lost and hurt again. He was hiding it well, though, or at least Paul thought he was considering the situation. Ringo ended up sitting next to John and in front of Maureen. With Neil on Maureen’s right and Paul on Neil’s right, Paul was not in front of John and was almost a bit disappointed to not have had the time to have more contact with him – if he could even consider that the short sentences they had shared counted as any contact at all.

Dinner went on, and it was loud and weird. Everyone seemed to be in a rather good mood, and Paul participated actively in the conversation to help hide the fact that Ringo and John were suspiciously quiet. Plus, in Ringo’s case, completely lost and disoriented. Paul couldn’t wait for the evening to draw to an end, and when Maureen confessed she was dreaming of her bed, he jumped on the occasion, yawning loudly and pretending to be exhausted too. Everyone sort of agreed they should call it a night, and thankfully, after having cleared the table, they all scattered to their own rooms and occupations. Ringo said he wanted to go out for a walk _on his own_ (and he sent a pointed look at Paul at that), to get some fresh air, and Paul watched him go with a bit of worry in his chest, feeling like a mother bird letting her chick fly off of the nest for the first time. When he realized that John had enjoyed the occasion to disappear off somewhere, he offered to help to do the dishes, feeling bad for not having done anything that far and needing to keep himself busy. He was anxious; scared for his friend, scared for their future. Just as he was slowly coming to terms with his situation, the rules of the game had changed all over again and he felt like he was back to square one. 

Once everything was cleared, cleaned and stocked, Paul went up the stairs, wondering where Ringo could be at the moment. He hoped he hadn't gone too far. Or that he wasn’t going to do anything stupid. God knew it had crossed Paul’s mind, even for the briefest moment. He got into one of the tiny bathrooms and brushed his teeth mechanically, lost in his thoughts. It was crazy to think that just a few hours before he’d been so excited (and a bit stressed) to see John again, and now his life was turned upside down once again. Ringo’s arrival meant so much. Maybe there was some deeper meaning here. Maybe they could talk about it, investigate, find it together. There were so many new possibilities now that his head was spinning with it. 

The door creaked in his back and he turned his head to see John coming in. A smile instinctively blossomed on Paul’s face, but his friend-lover-boyfriend barely responded and stayed stoic. Paul turned around to spit in the sink, the beating of his heart fastening by the second. This was not good. Why was he not smiling? Was he mad at Paul? Had he done something wrong, something that had upset him? Was it because of Ringo…? Forcing himself to breathe deeply, he rinsed his mouth, dried himself with a towel and turned back around to lean against the sink, arms extended on each side. 

John was standing against the white-tiled wall of the bathroom, arms crossed over his chest and his face unreadable. His silence and lack of expression were killing Paul.

“Hey,” Paul said after a while, lamely.

“Hey,” John echoed.

They just stayed like that, not saying anything and just looking at each other. The only thing Paul could discern in his lover’s eyes was that he was tired. 

“So. Future Ringo is here,” He simply said, searching Paul’s eyes. 

And Paul knew right away that even though he was trying to sound nonchalant, he was clearly upset. 

“Yeah,” He affirmed. “As if it could get craz—”

“You didn’t call,” John blurted out.

“Neither did you,” Paul retorted right away.

John pursed his lips, and finally let a tiny smile slip out. He took an agonizingly slow step closer, then another, still with his arms crossed, and suddenly his hips were brushing Paul’s. Paul strained not to move into him at all and just kept looking as expressionless as he could at John. He could faintly hear the others moving around the house, in the other rooms, and the thought that they were _right out there_ sent a shrill down his spine.

“Did you miss me?” John whispered, a teasing lilt to his voice.

In another context, another life, Paul would have punched him in the arm, called him a wanker and laughed it off with him. Now, he just wanted to jump on him and kiss him until he could not speak anymore. Paul decided to play stupid too. He pulled a pensive face and pretended to think it over.

“Mmh, no. Was pretty busy,” He lied.

The smile on John’s face stretched, turning into a mischievous grin, and he glanced at Paul’s lips. He moved ever so slightly, and the friction nearly made Paul hiss.

“Oh, well, I won’t keep you any longer then,” John lightly said. 

He stepped back and turned to the door, but he had not reached it that Paul caught his arm and turned him around, slipping his hands on his neck. When his lips touched John’s, he could not stop himself from sighing, feeling like he was finally able to breathe again. Thankfully John quickly dropped the act too and kissed him back right away, groaning when Paul pushed him against the wall to bring their hips flush together once again. His hands found Paul’s small back, one of them lowering to squeeze him and really, Paul was only human. He moaned into John’s mouth and pulled on the short hair of his nape, flattening himself against John’s body. His arousal peaked again when John pushed one of his knees in-between his legs, and they both deepened the kiss, already burning all over. Somewhere in his mind, Paul knew this was careless and stupid, because they had not locked the door and anyone could walk in here and catch them. And really, if they did not stop making that much noise, they could hear them too if they listened carefully. But having John against him was so freaking good, and not being able to do anything about his straining trousers was so damn frustrating that it was hard to see clear.

Finally, it was John who came up to the surface first. His hands had come up to hold Paul’s face, and he pulled away to kiss his cheeks, his nose, his chin, the small space above his lips. Paul let him do it, eyes closed and sighing with contentment. He slowly opened his eyes and looked at John with a sleepy smile, just so happy to be back with him that he could feel butterflies hammering the walls of his belly. John looked at him for a while, struggling to find his breath back, and suddenly started frowning a little. Paul’s smile faded. Dread immediately chased the butterflies away, but just as he was about to ask what was going on, John beat him to it.

“Go look after Ringo,” He said, sounding weirdly emotionless. “He needs you.”

And then, before Paul had time to come up with an answer, he was opening the door and leaving the bathroom.


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi if you want :)  
purechocolade.tumblr.com

Feeling dumbfounded, Paul left the bathroom after whole minutes of nothingness and white noise. His head was swirling with contradictory thoughts. John’s behaviour was strange. Paul did not quite know what reaction he was expecting, but definitely not that cold and distant one. He had looked really upset – the three of them were, legitimately, but they were together, weren’t there? They were supposed to rely on each other, talk to each other. Not drop weirdly detached advice and then flee. But maybe Paul was overreacting, reading what wasn’t there. Maybe it was just the shock and John would be back on tracks the next day. After all, Paul himself was still quite under shock. He couldn’t believe his Ringo was here, back with him. Maybe their being back there was linked to the Beatles – probably, even. What would be the odds, otherwise? Considering that this was all actually happening in the first place, and that Paul was just not somewhere in a coma and being delirious about it all? The possibility seemed more and more plausible to Paul the more he thought about it. Some sort of weird comatose dream. A definitely cruel and unfair one. 

Now in the corridor, he found he did not know what to do. He wanted to go find John again and sleep next to him, but of course that was impossible. Especially since the man’s room was right next to Michael’s. He passed before Ringo’s room and peeked through the ajar door; Maureen was alone, reading on the bed. Paul backed away quickly, not wanting to be seen and look like a pervert. Ringo was probably not back yet, then. He decided to go to the terrace and wait for him to come home. He found Martha sleeping in front of the fireplace and called her, the puppy raising her head and joining him happily. Paul caught his jacket on the way out and they both went to the terrace. Paul sat on the tiled floor, his feet on the soft grass. Martha sat in front of him and nuzzled her snout into Paul’s hand, asking to be stroked, to which Paul obliged gladly. He felt weary, disoriented once again. He just wished he could understand what was happening. And that John had stayed with him tonight. Some support wouldn’t have hurt. 

Time passed, and it was past 11pm when Paul finally could hear someone walking in the pebbles leading to the house. Ringo appeared in the lights of the driveway, his face so long and tired Paul almost wanted to just call it a night and postpone talking to an undetermined time. Ringo came to stop in front of him and squatted to pet Martha, who was now lying at Paul’s feet. 

“He looks like Martha,” He told Paul, looking at the quiet puppy.

“It is Martha. Couldn’t help myself,” Paul answered, feeling extremely tired himself – and Ringo did not even look surprised. “How are you?”

Ringo shrugged, looking at the windows of the first floor.

“I'm alright,” He said with a tight smile that did not reach his eyes.

He hesitated, stood up and then came to sit next to Paul. Paul silently watched the garden in front of them that was enlightened by a couple of light projectors. He could feel Martha breathe sleepily against his feet. Toads were croaking somewhere in the distance and it was already completely dark. He sort of felt like the weight of the whole world was falling on both their shoulders.

“I threw up,” Ringo admitted after a while, his voice sounding fragile in the silence. “In somebody’s bin, farther down the road.”

Paul glanced at him, finding that he didn’t need any more context to understand.

“Yeah,” He simply breathed out.

Ringo pulled on a broken bit of nail, observing his hands in the process.

“I saw my face earlier, when I went to the bathroom. It’s just… I can’t believe I’ve ever looked that young,” He brought up.

Paul’s eyebrows rose, his gaze lost in the void, and he chuckled briefly.

“Wait ‘til you see George.”

He heard Ringo take a sharp intake of breath.

“God…” He let out quietly. “This is so… wrong. So not natural. Do you know I realized that Zak is still a wee baby?” 

He stopped talking for a second, his voice on the verge of cracking. 

“Seeing Maureen… John… all of this, it shouldn’t be happening,” He added after a while.

For the second time since he’d arrived, Paul wished he hadn’t quit smoking.

“Yeah,” He repeated unhelpfully, not knowing what else to answer to that.

“John looks good. Like… himself,” Ringo said absently, sounding surprised about it – and really, Paul could only relate to the feeling. 

He recalled his two bandmate’s reunion earlier, and the surprise struck on John’s face. He could only hope he had not found weird how emotional Ringo had been about it. After all, as far as he knew, future Ringo was more or less still in contact with future John. So it would be weird for Ringo to see him young – but not _that_ moving. What if John was suspicious now? What if that was why he had been so odd in the bathroom…? Knowing Ringo, a slip-up could come so easily and ruin everything…

“I didn’t tell him,” He blurted suddenly, his anxiety flaring up. “John. About, you know. His—… I told him the band had broken up because he kept asking about it, but I couldn’t—”

He cut himself off and looked down, teeth worrying his lip and finding the words even harder to say now than before. 

“I can’t lose him again,” He added.

When he looked up, Ringo was looking sadly at him, his shoulders slumped.

“Yeah. I figured you hadn’t told him,” He told him quietly. “Not exactly the kind of subject you bring up at breakfast. I never thought… Well, it’s stupid, of course I never did, but I never thought I would ever have to face that kind of situation. I don’t know what to do.”

“Welcome to my world,” Paul chuckled sadly.

“Why us?” Ringo probed, bursting his bubble of thoughts. “I don’t get it. Do you think it’s because of the band?”

Paul turned to him and faced his large puppy eyes, looking desperate for some answer. Some sense into it all.

“I don’t know,” Paul chuckled without humour. “I’m sorry, but I really don’t. I don’t have answers, it’s... I’ve been asking myself that every day for months. And I just feel like, you know, I’m supposed to fix things, change the mistakes I regret, but. I can’t control what I regret the most, you know? I can’t control people’s lives. I can’t control what they’re thinking. I’m trying to… do better, be better. But now I don’t even think it changes anything. Sometimes I just feel like… there doesn’t seem to be a reason at all, you know?”

Ringo nodded, looking away too. Paul felt his throat closing up and had to push the words out.

“I’ve long abandoned the idea of going home,” He confessed quietly scratching Martha’s fur distractedly.

His friend didn’t answer, and they stayed silent a while longer.

“I wish Barbara was here. She would shake us up right away. Find something to do,” Ringo let out in a tiny sad chuckle. “I miss her already.”

Paul’s heart sank at the thought of his own wife. 

“I miss Nancy too,” He said, truthfully.

Whether she was all alone or with young Paul, the result was the same. She had lost her husband; if old Paul was still young Paul, the opposite was not as true, was it? The memories, the experience he had acquired. Those could not be faked. He could make an effort and remember things from his past, his past actions were ingrained in him somewhere, but young Paul literally had no idea what was to come. In that instant, he found that he truly did miss his wife. He missed her kindness, her fierceness, her face. The tender moments they had shared, the laughter. Even though he had John in his life now – and just thinking about it still made him feel weird –, there still was a hole in his heart, a wound left open and tearing him apart every time he thought about it too much. They had been separated so brutally that it was hard to grieve their relationship, once again.

The sound of window shutters being closed startled them both from their reverie. Paul glanced at his watch.

“We should head to bed, it’s getting real late. Way past our bedtime,” Paul joked.

Ringo chuckled and sobered immediately.

“Oh my. I have to sleep with Mo and everything, don’t I?”

“Well, nothing forces you to _sleep with_ her—”

“Shut up, idiot,” Ringo retorted, lightly pushing Paul’s arm. “You know what I mean.”

Paul smiled and they both got up – easily, thanks to their young and flexible bodies.

“Okay, _that_ is definitely nice,” Ringo said, pointing at the floor and his legs.

“Man, I’ve been running all the time since I arrived, can’t help it. It’s just so easy, you know? I barely get tired?!”

Ringo laughed and they both entered the house, Martha zigzagging between their legs.

That night, Paul laid for hours on his bed, looking at the ceiling and wondering what was going to happen from then on. Ringo was right: since now there were two of them, the probabilities of actually finding a way back home were higher. More tangible. _Home_… It was such a strange notion. He was not even sure what it meant anymore. He had spent so much time trying to fit back into his old life that he didn’t even know if he would be able to fit back into his future one. Back to being an old man. Back to his family, but also back to a world where there no longer was his father. George. Mal, Brian. Linda. 

John. 

Once again, he wished he could just go in John’s bedroom, feel his heartbeat under his fingers. He didn’t even know at what time he was supposed to leave the next day. When they would see each other. If they would actually spend time together or if they’d just vaguely talk at night during meals, or be lost in big groups of people all the time. It was so frustrating, to have to hide. Paul was not used to it, and he was not sure he ever would be.

He turned on his side and sighed deeply. No point in ruminating about it, anyway. He would just have to wait and see.

The next morning, when Paul woke up, John, Michael and his wife had already left for the day. Their nanny and their baby girl were staying at the house, and Paul felt bad for having barely noticed they were there in the first place with how distracted by Ringo and John he had been. It was disheartening, to know that he had come to see him, and in the end he might not see him at all. It was the first he had asked Neil when he’d arrived in the kitchen in the morning; it probably made him look like an idiot, or too eager, or even suspicious, but he couldn’t help it. Neil was reading a magazine, the leftovers of his breakfast pushed aside. Ringo was there too, staring through his cup of tea, looking a million miles away. Paul went to sit next to him, pouring hot water in his one of the empty cups lying on the table.

“You alright?” He asked his friend. When there was no answer, he added: “Ring?”

Ringo startled and turned to him, his eyes slowly re-focusing on the present and on Paul. He had deep dark circles under them.

“Oh, hi.”

“Did you sleep at all?” Paul asked quietly, frowning.

Ringo sent a glance to Maureen who was at the sink and shook his head. He didn’t add anything, but he didn’t need to; Paul understood all too well. Maureen came to sit with them, and Paul talked to her, trying to fill the obvious blanks left by Ringo, who stayed completely silent. Paul did not lose the worried glances his wife was sending him, but there wasn’t much he could do beside try to talk to her and keep her busy enough so that she would leave to Ringo the space he needed.

Once their breakfast was over, they all agreed to go visit the nearest village. According to Neil, they had a local market on Tuesdays, and it would be a good way to approach the culture of the area. Plus, Maureen said it would be a good occasion to find a birthday gift for John – even though Paul already had something. The four of them piled up in the car Neil had rented, and took all their time to visit the village, enjoying the quite warm weather despite it being October already. They objectively had a lovely day, but Paul spent the whole time glancing at Ringo to make sure he was alright, and it was clear that Maureen and Neil had caught on his weird behaviour as well. As he was coming back from a public bathroom, Paul even heard Maureen and Ringo whispering together, and clearly Maureen was not satisfied with the answers she was getting. Paul could barely imagine how complicated it was for his friend. When he’d come back, he had had to break up with Jane, but it was an easy decision – he knew they hadn’t lasted much longer anyway. But for Ringo, it was not as simple: they had a child, they had stayed together until the mid-1970s. They had deeply loved and cared for each other. And Ringo had literally seen her die. He could not simply break things off with her. Paul was not even sure he actually wanted to. Maybe they would discuss it, at some point.

Paul looked up once again and observed his friend, a few meters away. They were currently browsing the open market, more specifically boxes of paintings and photographs. Each in their corner, silent. Paul approached Ringo, who sent him a small smile. They stood side by side for a while, looking at the piles of photographs of random cities.

“How are you holding up?” Paul asked, keeping his gaze on the photographs.

He felt more than he saw Ringo shrug, his fingers still checking the different pictures.

“Not great. I feel like I’m in a nightmare. I’m just waiting to wake up at any moment,” He said, his voice a bit rough.

Paul wanted to swallow and found that it was hard to do, all of a sudden.

“It’ll pass,” He said eventually.

“I don’t want it to pass,” Ringo retorted, sounding a bit upset but trying to control it. “I want to understand.”

He let go of the pictures and let his arms drop from the box. With a sigh, he turned to face Paul.

“Do you think we can go back…?”

Paul mulled it over.

“I don’t know,” He finally answered. “I didn’t think that hard about it because, well, I was alone, you know? Felt like a random… thing, a blow of fate. But now that you’re here too… I don’t know. Maybe there’s a pattern we can find. Maybe other people lived it too. I don’t know.”

“I’m sure there is something we can do about it. There has to be.”

Paul frowned, a thought popping into his head.

“What were you doing the other night? What’s the last thing you remember before waking up here?”

Ringo thought it over, rubbing his lower lip.

“Nothing special. I was home, with Barbara. We were just eating, we talked.”

He paused, his breathing not so regular. Paul sighed. He himself did not remember having done anything special during his last day in 2019. Maybe this was a false lead altogether. 

“I know I’ve only just arrived, and it’s not fair to say that to you, but… I need to understand what happened, Paul. I can’t stop thinking about it,” Ringo admitted softly.

When Paul looked back at his friend, at the sadness emanating from him, he knew he _had_ to try. Even if the attempt was nearly bound to fail.

“We’ll find out. No matter what it takes, we’ll find out what happened. Okay?” Paul told him.

Ringo searched his face and after a moment, nodded numbly. Paul sent him a small smile, and went back to his box of photographs. They were beautiful, black and white, some a lot older than others. Probably from the travels of the vendor. The man had been in several European cities: Venice, Ravenna, Nice, Portalegre, Bergen, Paris, smaller towns… One of the pictures caught Paul’s attention and he picked it up to take a closer look. Was that…? He looked at the bottom and saw the name of the place written in delicate letters. Warmth spread through him when he recognized the name and a smile blossomed on his face. He turned to the vendor and asked how much it was. Thankfully, the question was transparent enough for the vendor to understand what he meant.

“Who is it for?” Ringo asked next to him, looking at the picture above his shoulder.

Paul smiled at him, paying the vendor who wrapped a sheet of paper around it to protect it. He quickly tried to gauge how much information was too much information, then figured future Ringo would have no idea what it was referring to anyway.

“John,” He said simply, slipping the photograph into his pocket.

“I thought you already had a gift for him.”

“Well I can give him two, can’t I? I’m allowed. He’s my friend, it’s normal,” Paul said, hoping he didn’t sound as much on the defensive as he felt.

“Okay, okay. I didn’t say it wasn’t,” Ringo slowly answered, looking a little confused. 

They both left the stalls, and Paul really hoped the sensation of heat in his neck was solely in his mind.

Days passed, and Paul’s frustration was growing hour after hour. As feared, he barely ever saw John – and when he did, they were never alone. Even at night, when everyone was going to bed, someone was always randomly talking to him and made it impossible for Paul to sneak in with him. Each time there was an opening, it was either too short, too risky or too complicated. It almost seemed as if John himself was _avoiding_ him, as if he was provoking all these things that came in their way, but Paul was trying not to let that idea get to him. Paranoia would not get him anywhere. They talked when there was everyone around, and it was already great to hear about his days on set, but it was not the same. Paul wanted to know how he really was. He wanted to know everything he could possibly know. He wanted to tell him how much he had missed him, no matter how cheesy it was. He was even dreaming of just holding his hand at this point. The most intimate they had been able to get was when they were sitting together on the back seat of the car, thigh to thigh, and John left his fingers linger against Paul’s for a while. Not exactly fulfilling.

It was a fun vacation, though. They moved to other houses a couple of times, and there always seemed to be something wrong with them, but the landscapes were nice and the local people did not bother them. They even got to go on set a few times, and it was interesting to witness it without the stress of having to actually do anything. He and Ringo spent most of their time together, and Paul filled him in with everything that had happened since he’d arrived, including things Ringo had forgotten with time. Paul found that talking to him was soothing his troubled mind in ways he didn’t know it needed soothing. It made him feel like his past experiences were validated. Certified real.

The day before John’s birthday, they were finishing their dinner in the dining room and it turned out that for once, Paul, John and Ringo were left alone at the table. Ringo’s face was more tired than ever, and John was observing him quietly, smoking a cigarette with a pensive look. 

“I’ve found a nice spot near the set today. Lots of funny trees. Quite beautiful. You’d like it,” He suddenly said, looking at Paul.

And how sad was it that Paul was happy to be the sole recipient of his attention, even for a short moment?

“Have you?” He replied, trying to sound more casual than he felt.

“Yeah. I’ll take you there sometime.”

Paul’s heart jumped in his chest and he instantly felt ridiculous for it.

“Mmh,” He settled on replying.

A few seconds of silence passed, each of them staring into a different void.

“So are you vaguely wrinkled too, in the future?” John suddenly asked Ringo, an odd air of defiance on his face.

“I’m wrinkled all over, you mean,” Ringo smiled amiably.

Paul snorted. 

“Are you kidding, you look like you’re barely 60,” He piped in. Then, to John: “He sounds the same, too. A bloody vampire, never changes.”

“Not my fault you turned into a wilted apple.”

Paul gaped at him. He saw John let out a tiny smile from the corner of his eye and it warmed his heart a little.

“Okay, that is just rude,” He told Ringo. “Younger you was nicer.”

“That’s not true. I’m nice enough to put up with you even when you want to eat Taiwanese all the time.”

Paul laughed at the memory from their last summer together, in 2019. Only a few weeks before their time-travel, actually.

“Oh please, that happened only twice! And as if your choices were better.”

Ringo opened his mouth to answer when John suddenly spoke up.

“How funny is that, to have several selves, huh? A young one, an old one. Maybe George will arrive from the future too, next. Wouldn’t that be a sight,” He said. He tapped his cigarette in the ashtray, then added, sounding far too nonchalant about it: “Or me. Who knows.”

Paul could feel Ringo trying to meet his gaze, but he just stared at John. But the other man was clearly avoiding him, observing his dying cigarette instead. A frown grew on Paul’s face. Something felt off. Why would John bring that up, out of the blue like that…? 

“Who knows, indeed. You should stop smoking, though,” Ringo said in a kindly neutral voice, diverting all of their attentions from the touchy subject. 

John looked up and pulled a face at him.

“Seriously? You too?” He pointed his chin at Paul. “I already have Mother Teresa on my back all day long, don’t need a second one.”

Paul glared at him but Ringo went on, undeterred.

“I mean it, John, you know.” Then, quieter: “Those things can kill you.”

Paul looked down, feeling the familiar lump back in his throat already. He could never catch a break, could he? 

John just looked at Ringo, not saying anything, only to butt his cigarette out in a deliberate movement. Once it was done, he raised his eyebrows at Ringo, seeming to say “are you happy now?”, and Paul was uncomfortable. He didn’t like the direction this conversation was going in. Something was off with John, and knowing that he would probably not find the time nor the occasion to talk about it with him annoyed him.

“Well, lads. I’m knackered. See you tomorrow, aye?” John said. 

Paul watched him abruptly push off his chair and get up, leaving the room in a flash. He looked strange, and Paul could not let that go. He got up too.

“Me too. Night, Richie,” He said. 

He did not wait for Ringo’s response and just left the room too, hearing John’s footsteps going up the stairs. He hoped for a second he would go to the bathroom – where it was easier to follow him – but was disappointed when he saw him enter his bedroom. Paul pursed his lips, but his mind was already made up. He needed to talk to him.

He went directly to John’s room and opened the door without knocking, closing it quickly behind him. Inside, John startled and turned around. He had already unbuttoned the half of his shirt.

“Shit, you scared me,” He told Paul with some accusation in his voice.

“Why did you say that thing about George or you coming back here too?” Paul asked, ignoring him.

John briefly looked at him, and then went back to focus on his buttons. Definitely off.

“It’s a legitimate possibility, isn’t it? You. Ringo. Why not George and me?” He answered on a level voice which Paul was seeing right through. “It would be a happily ever after reunion, wouldn’t it.”

“Cut the bullshit,” Paul said unceremoniously.

John rolled his eyes and sighed, the sound so profound and sad it rattled Paul. He angrily took off his shirt and sent it on a nearby chair, sitting down to take his trousers off to.

“Do you miss the other me, the younger one? Is that what this is about?” Paul probed.

“Well, I could ask you the same, couldn’t I?” John retorted snappily.

And then, it all became clear. John got up and went to his bed, opening it with sudden movements. Before he even started talking again, Paul knew he wouldn’t like what he was going to say.

“If old me comes back, we won’t be anything. You know that, right? I’ll just be your old grumpy friend. You won’t be getting it anymore.”

“Sod off. That would _not_ be my first concern. Seriously, who do you think I am?” Paul retorted, frowning at him and still standing on his spot in front of the door.

John settled in his bed, tapping on the pillow more than necessary, and sent a carefully blank look in Paul’s direction..

“I don’t know, Paul. I don’t know who you are. That’s the thing, innit?”

Paul just gaped at him, feeling like he had just been slapped. John sighed.

“Look, I’m tired, okay? I just want to sleep. So please, leave before anyone gets suspicious.”

“But you know me,” Paul retorted, his own voice sounding feeble to his ears.

John’s eyes darkened, staring straight at him. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, but somehow Paul suddenly felt naked and cold.

“Paul. Leave. Please.”

Paul maintained his gaze, but he knew there was no point. There was no talking to John when John didn’t want to talk – he had learnt that the hard way over the years. Feeling irritated and burning with shame, Paul turned around and left the room swiftly, restraining himself from just slamming the door. He wished he’d never entered it in the first place. 

Unsurprisingly, Paul barely slept that night. He kept thinking about what John had told him, and what he could have – should have – said to reassure him. To make him understand that he _did_ know him. He knew him better than anyone. Perhaps he even always had. He knew John had trouble accepting people genuinely cared about him, that they wouldn’t just leave him. But he didn’t know how to fight that fear, that anxiety. Especially if John was being that aggressive about it. Because Paul had a temper too, and he knew that if he tackled the subject head on with John, nasty things could come out on both sides. It was a necessary discussion, but he needed to find the right way to do it. And he had no idea what it was.

When he woke up, it was sweaty and breathing hard. Back to his old habits. In his dream, his grandchildren were watching him being locked in a fish tank and trying to scream at them to let him out. Just thinking about it made him shiver from head to toe. 

His head was killing him, and his eyes were burning. He was already in a bad mood and wanted only one thing: to go back to bed as soon as possible. He got dressed messily and went downstairs, rubbing his eyes in a desperate attempt to make them burn less. When he entered the kitchen, he looked up and immediately met John’s penetrative gaze. He froze and they stared at each other for a few seconds. Paul was a bit taken aback. He had not decided what to say yet, so he said… nothing. John’s eyes were hard, unblinking. Paul felt annoyed at once; if that was how he was going to take it, it would not be pretty. The day promised to be long. The Crawford’s nanny and Gabrielle were busy preparing breakfast, oblivious to the newcomer. The moment stretched, until Neil announced his arrival with a hand on Paul’s shoulder and a loud:

“Hey, lads! Happy birthday, Johnny boy!”

Paul’s head snapped to him, getting whiplashed from it. He turned back to John and saw his friend-boyfriend let out an uncharacteristically shy smile. Paul then noticed the dark circles under his eyes, the tightness of his jaw. He wasn’t the only one to have had a bad night.

“Thanks. But it’s Mister John to you,” John answered wittily, his voice sounding a bit strained to Paul.

Neil snorted and fully entered the kitchen. Gabrielle and the nanny turned at the noise and greeted both of them. Paul stood frozen on his spot, shame like ice in his fingers and his toes, paralyzing him. He had literally forgot his birthday. Sure, he had just woken up, but still. Hearing other footsteps resonate behind him in the hallway finally prompted him to move and he went to take a cup and sit at the table. He panicked for a second when he had to choose where to sit, only to follow Neil’s movement and sit next to him, not quite opposite to John. 

The other inhabitants of the house slowly trickled in one by one, each of them wishing a happy birthday to John and emphasizing a little more Paul’s oversight. Even Ringo remembered it – despite the confusion of time and months and everything. Paul was angry at himself, and ashamed. It was stupid, he knew it, but now that he hadn’t wished it right from the start, he didn’t dare wish it at all. As if his window was closed, and now it was too late. John would probably just snap at him, anyway. He caught John’s gaze on him a couple times, and the expression in them was hard to read. Not that Paul specifically wanted to read the accusation or the disappointment in them anyway. 

Their day on set was to be a rather short one, and everyone agreed they could meet at a restaurant in the early evening to properly celebrate. John didn’t look that enthused by the idea, Paul could detect it, but he still went along with it. Michael and he left for work, and Paul still hadn’t said a word to him. He wondered if that made John angrier or relieved. The day passed, agonizingly slow: Maureen, Ringo, Neil and Paul went to the beach of Almeria, and even though the water was too cold for a swim, it was nice to relax in the sand and let the lulling rhythm of the sea waves appease his mind. He was nervous, restless. He hated this situation: he didn’t care that this was a holiday, and about how great it was to be in Spain. He wanted to see John, to get to the bottom of what was annoying him exactly. John said he didn’t know him, but somehow Paul could feel that it was just to say something. It didn’t feel like that was the thing that was upsetting him. There was something else, and Paul could not quite pinpoint what. Was he just scared future him would arrive and take his place, too? Paul knew it was highly unlikely, but it was true that John had no way of knowing that. He had to admit, the thought had the potential to be pretty scary – to John, that is. To Paul too, of course, but. More to John. 

When he thought back to their conversation of the night before, he could only find it more and more confusing. John’s accusations were unsettling, as if himself was not quite sure what he was scared about exactly. Because he was scared – that, Paul was sure of. He knew him well enough to see that. And yet Paul was too stupid to reassure him properly. Or to even just wish him a happy birthday.

What an idiot.

They were arriving on foot at the restaurant and Paul was buzzing with nerves. He had left Martha back at the house with the nanny, and the sad whining of the dog still resonated in his ears. He was holding the record he’d bought for John a few days ago, and, safely tucked away in a pocket of his jacket, there was the photograph he’d found at the market. Even though he was not sure it was even relevant to give it to John, now. He also had other things in his jacket, a stupidly hopeful precaution probably. It was quite early and according to the Spanish fashion to eat late, there was no one near the restaurant. Just their group, Gabrielle included, standing near the entrance and inconspicuous enough to go unnoticed by the rare passer-by’s. Paul was talking with Maureen about their parents and how they were slowly aging when a car arrived from a distance, and he fell silent. Sure enough, when the car stopped, John and Michael got out of it and Paul’s heart started fluttering. He was still _not_ used to that. 

The two men approached them and Paul stayed in the back, feeling awkward and hating it. John’s eyes met his for a brief moment, and Paul was transfixed, but soon enough his friend’s attention was called somewhere else. Everyone seemed joyful – even Ringo, whose smile was a sight for sore eyes. They all entered the restaurant, Paul trailing behind and hoping nobody would point out how rude and quiet he was being. They had made a reservation and were led to a big table in the back, where nobody would come and disrupt them. Since he had come in last, Paul was lucky not to have to choose his seat and ended up at the end of the table, next to Neil, with Gabrielle in front of him and John on the opposite end of the table, diagonally from him.

Dinner went alright, all things considered. The tapas were delicious, and conversation flowed easily between the seven of them. Paul was far enough from John that it did not look weird that they were not talking. He hated it, of course, but John was not even trying to look at him so he was annoyed by it too, after a while. When dessert arrived, Mo announced loudly that it was time for the presents, and Paul groaned internally. He hoped John wouldn’t act like an arse when Paul would give him his present. Everyone passed around their little packages, and John’s cheeks were red – whether it was from the embarrassment or the sangria was not clear. When it came to Paul’s turn to give his, the package passed from hand to hand until it landed in John’s. He sent a cautious look to Paul and started ripping off the paper to reveal the newest album of the Beach Boys, ‘Pet Sounds’. He knew for a fact John didn’t have it yet, since they had only listened to it together at Paul’s flat. And he knew he loved it. They had even talked about it again a few weeks prior. 

John stared at the record for a while, then looked up to Paul, wearing a not very clear expression. Paul, feeling embarrassed again, rushed to justify it.

“You said ‘God Only Knows’ was their best one, yet. So I thought… yeah,” He said, awkward.

Something flashed in John’s eyes, and he sent a small, shy smile to Paul. Paul felt tingles rushing through him at the sight.

“Thanks, Paul,” John said quietly.

Paul smiled back, and that was it. Gabrielle announced it was Michael’s and her turn, and John’s attention was diverted once again. The rest of the night went on, and Paul felt the tiniest bit better. At least, John was not completely mad at him. It was not much but it was better than nothing. Paul was still feeling a bit tired and nauseous, and he stopped at one glass of sangria, feeling like drinking more would only exacerbate his headache. The others did not seem bothered at all, though, and alcohol flowed freely, John’s cheeks getting redder and redder as the hours passed. It was nearing one in the morning when they finally decided to call it a night and called a taxi to get safely home. Paul, who was very much sober, proposed to drive the car back. When the cab arrived, they were all saying goodbye outside when John jumped on the occasion to announce he’d be coming home with him. He was drunk, and not in a particularly bad mood, but Paul knew how quick this could change so he was not exactly serene about it. 

“I’ll show you the trees I told you about, yeah?” John said, coming to stand next to Paul.

“Yeah, sure,” Paul agreed easily. 

And really, he was hoping he would not regret it.

“Well, see you home later then, lads. Be careful, okay?” Michael told them as the others were entering the cab.

“Paul, keep a good eye on him,” Ringo added quickly, looking a bit worried.

“We’ll be fine, don’t worry,” Paul answered with a reassuring smile.

The cab left, and suddenly, Paul and John were alone in the deserted street. It was strange, to be surrounded by silence after such a lively night. John was twisting his feet to look at his shoes from all angles, and Paul smiled at the sight. God. 26.

“You ready, then?” He asked.

John looked up and nodded, his eyes a bit hooded. He silently followed Paul to the car parked nearby. They entered, fastened their seatbelts and started driving. John was only directing Paul where to turn once in a while and Paul did not dare talk either. They drove for a good while, the night enveloping them in a blanket of silence and peace that soother Paul’s tired body a little, but did nothing to calm his nerves. They finally reached the middle of nowhere, on a small hill, with nothing but sand, rocks and funny trees around them, and Paul hid his surprise when John told him they had arrived. The full moon was casting a lovely glow on the landscape and it looked sort of pretty, but it was nothing extraordinary at all. A bit dull. There was no one in sight, not a car, not a soul. A bit further, they could see the trailers and trucks for the movie. Paul cut off the engine, turned on the ceiling light and stared at the view, feeling a little disappointed.

“That’s… that’s it?” He asked after a while, turning inquisitive eyes to John.

John, whose head was resting against his seat, sat up and turned to him. Strangely enough, his eyes didn’t seem so hooded anymore and his face not so flushed. Paul suspected he had acted drunker than he actually was earlier in the evening.

“Yeah,” He simply said.

“Oh. Okay. It’s… lovely.”

John sighed, surprising him.

“It was just an excuse, you know,” He let out, sounding a tiny bit irritated.

The words finally hit Paul, and he felt his neck warm up.

“Oh.”

Silence stretched between them, and Paul didn’t like how awkward it felt. He thought they had passed that point between them and seeing how wrong he had been about that was an uncomfortable realization. He unfastened the seatbelt to feel a little more at ease, and hearing the paper creaking in his pocket reminded him of his second gift.

“Oh, wait a sec,” He told John, diving his hand into his jacket. 

He retrieved the small paper package and handed it to John, who frowned slightly at it.

“Happy birthday,” Paul finally said, a bit lamely.

John took the paper and sent him a quick glance. His cheeks were a little red again.

“I thought you’d never wish it to me.”

“I wasn’t sure you wanted me to.”

John just looked at him and turned back to the paper, ripping it far more delicately than he had at dinner. The photograph appeared in the light. An apparently regular street, a few people walking by, the shape of a church in the background. And under it, standing out in black letters: ‘Ivry-sur-Seine’. And next to it, added by Paul with a pencil 'October 1966.' John stared at it for a long time, so long that Paul thought he did not understand the reference and was just wondering why the fuck Paul was giving him a random picture of a street. He cleared his throat.

“It’s, um, it’s where—” He started awkwardly.

“I know,” John cut him off, finally looking up at him.

Despite the bad lighting, Paul could see his eyes were shining. 

“I know it’s stupid, but…” He started, shrugging.

John shook his head and turned his eyes back to the picture, softly caressing it with his finger.

“No. No, it’s not. I… Thank you.”

Paul smiled tightly, embarrassment making him feel sweaty and stupid. Then, in a sudden flash of boldness, he leant over and kissed John’s cheek, leaning back in his seat straight away. An amused smile broke on John’s face, and when he turned to look at Paul, his eyes were happy.

“What are you, 12?” He asked, a mocking lilt to his lopsided grin.

Paul grinned back and leant again to kiss him properly this time, bumping into his glasses and feeling John’s breath hitch the second before their lips met. Paul slipped a hand on his cheek, loving how both soft and bristly his skin was. John tilted his head and the kiss deepened, Paul having to force himself to breathe through his nose to not get too lost in it and just ‘forget’ to breathe. After a while, Paul pulled away and put his forehead against John’s, loving how his breath was coming out in short puffs against his mouth. He liked him. He _really_ liked him.

“Sorry I was a git today,” He whispered.

“Today?” John repeated, teasing.

Paul punched him lightly on the arm and John laughed. Suddenly, they were back to normal, and the butterflies in Paul’s belly were flying around like crazy. John put his hand on Paul’s thigh and it burned him through the fabric. Still smiling, Paul leant again, this time daring to step over the gear stick to plop down into John’s lap, who caught him by the hips. He delicately took off John’s glasses, folded them and put them in the glove box. They started kissing again, and this time it got heated pretty quickly. Paul wanted it, and he could feel John did too. They awkwardly took off their jumpers, tacitly choosing to keep their shirts not to make it even more complicated (a car was not the best place to do it, assuredly), their hands slipping under them to cover each centimetre of skin, leaving burning traces everywhere. They were both trying to unbutton their trousers and Paul stopped to look at John’s face, having to lower his head a little not to bump into the ceiling. 

“I, uh… We can switch. If you want,” He breathed out, searching John’s eyes and glancing at his oh-so-tempting lips.

John was breathing hard too, his eyes fluttering to Paul’s lips. He frowned briefly and swallowed audibly, looking up into Paul’s eyes again.

“Yeah…?” He made sure.

Paul hesitated for a second, but then found himself nodding frenetically. If he hesitated, he would never do it. And right now, he really, _really_ wanted to. At least to see if it was as good as John himself had told him it was. John surged up to meet his lips once again, his hands gripping Paul’s neck and Paul moaned loudly, all caution flying out the window. 

“I don’t have anything,” He panted into Paul’s mouth.

“I do,” Paul replied.

That earned him a shit-eating grin from his boyfriend.

“I see you plan things ahead, McCartney. Good to know,” He teased him, though he did not stop kissing him.

Paul chuckled.

“Shut up.”

A smiling John met him in the middle and things got heavy again. It was complicated, and particularly impractical. It took so much time for Paul to take his trousers and underwear off, bumping into everything and nearly blinding John in the process, that they ended up laughing uncontrollably between two sessions of snogging. It was probably the best sex they’d ever had, though. John was tender, so loving that Paul didn’t feel ashamed for a second. He was afraid of course – and damn, did it _fucking hurt_ – but he was not alone, John was right there with him, and he smelled good and he tasted better and they were alright. When Paul finally was fully blanketed by John’s body, he winced hard and John covered his face in kisses, and really, Paul could swear he was whispering to Paul that he was beautiful (even though it was too low for him to be sure of it). Pain soon led to pleasure though, and from then on Paul didn’t care about anything anymore. His head fell on John’s shoulder and he hugged him tight. Nothing but John mattered, his lips on Paul’s shoulder, his rocking hips, his hands caressing Paul’s body under his shirt. Paul lifted his head up to kiss John again and it was sloppy because they were both panting and too eager, but it didn’t matter. It didn’t last long, of course it didn’t, but when it was over Paul hurriedly got rid of the condom, burying it in a tissue, and stayed for a while on John’s lap, their arms safely circling each other. Paul tucked his chin in the hollow of his neck and breathed him deeply, feeling happy and satiated. When he opened his eyes to caress John’s hair, a light in the distance caught his eyes and he squinted through the window. Was that…? 

A shiver ran through him and he shook John’s shoulder.

“Fuck, the police,” He huffed out, scrambling to get off John’s lap.

“Fuck the police?” John repeated, his voice still drowsy, looking lost and dishevelled.

“There’s a police car coming up,” Paul explained quickly, a bit frantic. “Pull up your pants, quick.”

John’s eyes widened comically. He glanced through the window and hurried to obey, his hands shaking a little. It was easier for him than for Paul though, who understood rapidly that he wouldn’t have time to dress up properly. He slid his legs directly into his trousers and pulled them as high as he could, and when he realized he couldn’t manage to buckle his belt, he grasped his jacket on the back seat and covered his lap with it. John slipped on his jumper – hiding the mess on his shirt – and was finger-combing his hair. He opened the glove box to retrieve his glasses. They could already hear the car slowing down in the alley leading to their spot. John sent a quick glance to Paul and reached out to tug a rebellious lock of hair back into place.

They both had a few seconds to regulate their breathing and soon after a policeman was coming up to John’s window, tapping on it. John pulled it down and smiled at the officer who pointed a flashlight in his face.

“Hola, sir,” He exclaimed joyfully, and Paul tried his hardest not to wince.

“Buenas tardes, señores,” The officer said, and the vague suspicion on his features did nothing to appease Paul. “Ingles?”

“Si. He is an actor,” Paul piped in with a smile. And then he added, pointing at the filming set a bit further, plunged into darkness: “He’s acting there.”

The man followed his finger, and he looked confused for a second. He looked back at John and Paul, squinting at them. Paul could tell the exact second he recognized them and had never been that thankful to be famous.

“Oooh, you Beatles, si? I know you,” The officer said happily, a smile breaking on his face.

“Yes, we are the Beatles,” John nodded with a tight smile. “You want an autograph?”

He mimed writing something and the officer shrugged and nodded with a smile, searching into his jacket for a piece of paper and a pen. John sent a quick glance to Paul, and he knew they were both thinking the same thing. Paul moved slightly on his seat and had to refrain a wince when he realized how sore he already was. Great. If the officer asked them to leave the car, it would be obvious for sure.

John signed the paper the officer gave him, and handed it to Paul to sign it too. 

“You here for no paparazzi?” The officer asked John. 

“Yes, that’s right,” John nodded. “Paparazzi are too tiring. It’s nice to catch a break.”

The officer nodded with a convinced expression, and Paul handed the paper back to him with a big smile. The man took it gladly and put it back in his jacket.

“Los dejo, entonces,” He said with a last satisfied smile. “Take care. Good night!”

“Good night, officer!” They both answered in unison, watching him go back to his car and, _finally_, drive away.

Once they were sure the car was gone, they both slumped back in their seats with deeps sighs and Paul realized exactly just how tense he had been the whole time. Paul threw the jacket in the backseat again and buckled his belt properly this time, his underwear still lying somewhere at his feet. Oh, well. He turned to John, who had propped an elbow on the window, his mouth in his hand and his eyes lost in the void.

“You okay?” Paul asked softly.

John breathed deeply and nodded, only looking fleetingly at Paul.

“Yeah. Sure. We should go home, though,” He answered with a tired voice.

Paul nodded and started the car. They drove in silence towards the house, both lost in their thoughts. They had come very close to a catastrophe. Paul shivered when he thought about what would have happened to them if the officer had understood what they had been doing. One thing was sure, their careers (and maybe even their lives) would have been truly over, shattered to pieces. It was dizzying, to realize how much bad could fall on them were they to be discovered.

They finally arrived in their street and Paul stopped the car a bit before the house, in front of a dumpster. He wanted to postpone the moment he would have to leave John for as late as possible. He looked at him, observing his soft face, his tired eyes, the lean muscles he could make out through his clothes.

“Did you enjoy your birthday, then?” He asked, a bit pointlessly. 

He didn’t know right away why he was asking that, only to realize after a second that he just wanted to hear John’s voice. John kept his gaze lost somewhere ahead, and lowered his hand from his chapped lips.

“’Was alright, I guess,” He answered, looking nonplussed.

“Ringo got you a nice belt, I saw,” Paul went on, feeling his nerves getting more frayed by the second. “I don’t know when he did, though.”

The meaning of it went unsaid, but Paul knew John had got it. They both fell silent again, looking out at the sleeping street, only lit up by a few lampposts.

“I don’t want to disappear,” John suddenly blurted out, sounding worked up about it. “I don’t want future me to show up.”

Paul turned to him, sadness taking hold of him once again, and his hand came up to caress John’s cheek on its own volition.

“You won’t disappear, John.”

But John only snorted and pushed Paul’s hand off.

“Yeah you say that because even if I do, it doesn’t change much for you now, does it?”

The words stung Paul and he frowned, feeling offended – and knowing it was meant to be offending.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll be happy to find old me back. And you’re not alone anymore anyway. You have Ringo.”

The words smacked Paul in the face and he froze under their weight. _You don’t need me_ was what his eyes were screaming at Paul. Which brought more pain than Paul could tolerate. Was that what all of this was about? John being afraid Paul wouldn’t need him anymore? The thought was so false and ridiculous it was nearly laughable.

“Listen to me, you wanker. You’re not… I’m not with you because I’m fucking lonely, okay?! Ringo is not you. No one is you. And the… things, we do, you and I, I would definitely _not_ do them with him.”

“But you would do them with George, wouldn’t you? He’s a good-looking lad.”

“What the fuck John?!” 

John shook his head to himself and turned it to the window, and right before he did, Paul could swear his eyes were glistening.

“I know you’re sad I’m not the future me,” John said, his voice quieter. “I know you miss _him_.”

Paul shook his head frenetically. The situation was getting out of control and he didn’t know how to stop it from spiralling further. The worst thing was, if he was being fully honest with himself… John was not completely wrong. In some twisted way, he _did_ miss old John. He had spent so much of his life missing him, it was ingrained in him. Their relationship had been difficult, complicated, but it had been _John_. He would probably always miss him, even when he was right in front of him.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” He let out quietly, too.

“Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t miss him,” John demanded.

He was glaring at Paul again, and for the umpteenth time that week, Paul felt very small under his gaze. 

“I’ve missed you more than you could ever imagine,” He confessed, his throat so constricted speaking was painful. “_You_, John. All of you.”

“Why did you lose me, then?”

Paul’s blood froze in his veins and a weight fell into his stomach, waking up his old nausea.

“…What?”

“I heard you and Ringo talk the other night. You were just under my window, you idiot. I know you miss your fucking wife, and I know you were both shocked to see me again. I’ve seen Ringo’s face when he saw me! He was not surprised, he was _amazed_. Like almost crying. I’m not stupid. And I know you lost me at some point, whatever that fucking means. So, please, if you have one ounce of decency in you, please stop fucking lying to me and tell me what I did.”

“I’m not—” Paul started feebly, getting more and more choked up. “It’s not like that. You didn’t do anything.”

How could he make him _understand_…?

“Oh yeah? But how can I believe you, though? You _are_ lying. You said we were still friends when we were old, but it’s not true. I know future me fucked up somewhere. I know it. I can see it on your fucking face. You’re always checking on me as if… as if I was a fucking time bomb.”

Paul shook his head frantically, not trusting his voice anymore. John was shaking in anger and fear, lost to irrationality altogether.

“Why are you even with me? What, do you just miss fucking that much? Having a warm body, some git ready to listen to you and tell you you’re great, to love you no matter what? Do you just pity me?”

“Don’t say that,” Paul replied fiercely, angry tears burning his eyes but refusing to spill out.

But John ignored him, launched on his self-destructive path.

“What were Ringo and you talking about? What haven’t you told me? Is it me? Did _I_ break up the band, and you never forgave me?” He pushed on, sounding angry and particularly upset.

“Just stop! Stop saying that, it wasn’t your fault!” Paul lashed out.

“Then why?!” John pressed him, his tone considerably louder and more enraged. “What happened to me? Why did you lose me?”

Beyond the anger and the frustration that were obvious on his boyfriend’s face, Paul understood he was _scared_.

“John, stop it. I can’t talk about it wi—” He stopped himself short but when he saw the hurt flash in John’s eyes, he knew it was too late. Nothing he could add would take it back.

John recoiled as if Paul had slapped him.

“With me. You can’t talk about it with me,” He completed in a blank voice.

“That’s not what I meant,” Paul immediately amended.

“Yes it is.”

John glared at him and shook his head again, looking down at his own lap. This time, Paul saw him wipe away an angry tear. If he was feeling broken before, it was nothing compared to seeing John cry because of him. He was hurting him. He had sworn himself he would keep John safe, and now he was purely and simply hurting him. And John was right: he _was_ lying to him. No matter how much he tried to convince himself it was for the best, he was. And John was suffering from it. They had reached some peace between them in Paris, but now that Ringo was back, it seemed to have awoken a wound in John that Paul had not even suspected. And if he kept lying to him and dodging his questions, the wound only get deeper and deeper and then it would be too late. He would lose him, and there would be nothing left for Paul to do to fix it.

“Fuck it,” John murmured suddenly.

The time Paul had spent realizing what was going on had been enough for John’s patience to wear out and in an angry movement, he turned to the door, ready to get out of the car. _If he leaves the car, it’s all over_, Paul thought in a flash.

“You died,” He blurted out, the terrified words tumbling out of him.

John froze. Then he turned around, slowly, his hand still on the doorknob. His face was falling under Paul’s very eyes.

“…What?” He asked in a small voice.

And just at seeing the pain on his face, Paul wanted to die right there and then.

“You died,” He repeated with a trembling voice. “That’s why I lost you. It never was your fault.”

John stared at him, wide-eyed. In that instant, he looked like a scared little kid and Paul had rarely been that frightened in his life.

“How?” John asked quietly, sounding weird.

Paul shook his head, wishing he never had to bring so much pain onto the one person he wanted to protect the most.

“How?!” John asked again, louder and surprisingly unwavering.

Paul had to force the answer out. He couldn’t back out, now. He braced himself, the words literally burning his throat.

“You were shot. Some crazy guy, they caught him right after. You… You were 40.”

John just kept staring at him, all colours drained from his face. His eyes were shining and unblinking, seemingly frozen. He was not moving – he did not even seem to be breathing. Paul wanted nothing more than to engulf him in a hug, but he felt like the slightest movement might scare the boy away.

As if John had heard him think, he suddenly recoiled, shaking his head. Whether to himself or to Paul, it wasn’t clear.

“John…” Paul started, moving to stop him. 

John sharply looked up and sent him a last shocked look before brutally opening the door and darting off down the street and away from their house. 

“John!” Paul cried out after him, uselessly.

He just watched him go, feeling completely empty.


	40. Chapter 40

The first seconds after John’s abrupt departure were made of white noise paralyzing Paul’s whole being. His vision got blurry, his fingers went ice cold and his head started spinning a little. It all felt unreal. John’s name was dying on his tongue and his heart felt so clenched it was a miracle it was still beating at all. What had he done? _What had he done…?_

In a sudden rush of adrenaline, he looked up at the street to see where John was, but he was long gone, of course. A thousand dreadful scenarios invaded Paul’s mind, each new possibility worse than the previous one. John was upset, overwhelmed. Probably confused, angry, terrified. He was not the best at controlling his actions when he was in a clear state of mind, so who knew what he could do now?! For all Paul knew, he might jump off a bridge. He was supposed to keep John safe, to protect him, and he had done the exact opposite. He had brought upon him a pain beyond imagination, because even though the future might be different this time around, there was no guarantee they would be able to prevent that specific, horrific event from happening. And even if they did, John now knew that in some version of his life, he had been murdered. The most violent way to go, and at a young age to make it worse. It was real, done and buried. And now John was alone with that crushing knowledge, and Paul had no idea where he had gone. 

The bloodied images from his nightmares kept popping up to him, the nausea growing with each passing second. The tapas and the single poor glass of sangria were starting to remind themselves to him too. Suddenly it was too much and he felt himself heaving: he opened the car door precipitately, just in time to throw up on the road. Head hanging and arm still on the door, he was surprised to feel a surprisingly fresh breeze blow onto his face and in his hair, making him shiver a little. John was just wearing a thin jumper…

He wiped his mouth, turned to grab John’s jacket and got out of the car. He slipped his own jacket on, keeping John’s tucked under his arm. The dread in his stomach was still as strong. He needed to find him. Perhaps he should ask for help, to be more efficient… He thought of going back to the house and wake Ringo up, but he didn’t want to risk waking up Maureen too, or even all the others. Explaining why John had suddenly run off in the first place would be far too stressful and complicated. No, he needed to find him alone. And quickly. 

Closing the car, he started running in the direction he had seen John go off to, ignoring how sore his bottom and legs still felt. It was a quiet neighbourhood, only sparse big houses with driveways and pools and gardens. Since it was the middle of the night, the only lights were coming from the few lampposts scattered along the street. Where could have he gone? As far as Paul was aware, he didn’t know much of that area. There was not a specific place he could have gone to – at least none that would be available on foot. Even more knowing how terrible John’s sense of direction was, and how upset he was. In the houses, nearly all lights were extinguished except for the odd bathroom window. Paul roamed the length and breadth of the neighbourhood, his heart doing somersaults each time he would encounter some lost soul walking home – who never was John. He searched for so long and on such a fast pace that his legs were getting tired, the sweat on his back was getting unpleasantly cold and he could feel his hair sticking to his forehead. From how hot his face felt, he was probably all red and blotchy by now. After long minutes of aimless search, he realized he no longer knew where he was – a long way from their house and their car, a long way from John too probably. Paul stopped walking when he noticed he had entered a dead-end, ready to turn back around. He was breathing hard and almost wanted to just plop down on the concrete and cry. He needed to breathe deeply, will the panic to go away. Nothing good could come out of it. He closed his eyes a moment and started walking again.

He was aimlessly roaming in some street when he came face to face with an old kids’ playground, the installations looking sad and desolate in the emptiness of the night. It was poorly lit, the light from the nearest lamppost barely reaching the end of it. Letting his feet guide him, Paul entered it and went to sit on a merry-go-round, dropping John’s jacket next to him and taking his head into his hands. He couldn’t believe how stupid he’d been. When he reviewed their whole conversation in his mind, it just appeared strikingly clear how insecure and scared his boyfriend had been. _‘I don’t want to disappear’_, he’d said. The more the words echoed in Paul’s mind, the more he wanted to slap himself. John had lost young Paul, whether either of them wanted to admit it or not. That version of him had simply vanished. And, furthermore, if young Paul had stayed around, they _never_ would have gotten together. Of course John would be scared to disappear! The thought would be terrifying for anyone. Even more since old John coming back would mean they would lose everything they had built together the last few weeks. And after the months Paul had spent whining about how sad he was to have lost his old life, of course he would be scared Paul would leave him aside now that he had old Ringo back! Paul _knew_ how insecure John could get. He _knew_ it, and yet he’d just let things pile onto one another until it all blew up. John had said it himself: he was not stupid, far from it. Of course he would understand there was something fishy behind Paul’s half-arsed answers about their future. And Ringo’s arrival had been the match to light everything on fire…

His arrival was a shock to Paul, but in a way, it was positive. It meant he was not alone, and that he might find some sense behind all this. But for John… Now that Paul tried to see it from his perspective, he realized fully how ignorant, insensitive and oblivious he had been the last few days. For John, Ringo’s arrival was not a good thing. It meant future John could arrive too and take his place. It meant the band could be dead. It meant Paul’s wife could come back too – who knew! It meant Paul could go back to his future from one minute to the next. It also meant Paul could choose to fight to get his old life back rather than to keep his current one. And even if Paul himself did not know yet how he felt about any of those things, he knew he wanted John to be there with him. He should have reassured him, talk to him separately. Include him more, somehow. Make him understand that even though Ringo was back, it didn’t change anything between them. He should have… But instead, like the true idiot he was nowadays, he had gotten offended over nothing and had sulked in his corner like a child, waiting for John to come back to him first. 

He breathed deeply, forcing himself to gather his thoughts and not to let himself drown in guilt and self-hatred that would get him nowhere. He looked at his watch; it was already 3:24am. He had lost John for more than two hours now. The man could be anywhere. 

He could already be dead in a ditch.

The horrifying thought crossed Paul’s mind and settled nicely in his consciousness, absorbing every last slice of calm and hope. His eyes were burning and his head was so heavy even his hands struggled to hold it. If only he could erase what he’d done, take it all—

“Hey.”

Paul’s head snapped up in a flash. He stayed stunned for a couple of seconds, waiting to make sure his vision wasn’t betraying him. But no. No it wasn’t.

John was right there, standing in front of him in that empty playground. He was looking at the ground, his crossed arms revealing trembling hands that he kept in tight fists. His face was white as a sheet, and there were red patches under his bloodshot eyes, proving he had been angrily rubbing tears away. Relief blossomed in Paul’s heart and spread through every vein, warming his members one at the time. He was so relieved he wanted to cry, and was not surprised to feel his eyes get heavier. He wanted to stand up and give him a hug, touch him, but he found he couldn’t move.

“You’ve found me,” He let out in a choked up voice, unable to say more.

John looked up, the light of the nearest lamppost falling right on his face, and there was so much emotion in his eyes Paul felt like he could drown in them. He looked scared, distraught, close to tears. There were faint traces of anger in the crinkles by the corner of his eyes, but they had been swept away and replaced with a bone-deep exhaustion. He looked miserable, but he was alive. Paul had never found him more beautiful.

Silently, Paul took the jacket lying next to him and handed it to him. John silently took it and just put it on his shoulders, not bothering with the sleeves. Then, he shivered and slowly came closer, sitting next to Paul on the merry-go-round and then lying on his back. After a moment, still reeling from his love’s return, Paul laid his back and head down too. They were each on one side of the handrail, their heads close together but not touching. Paul was barely lying down that John swiftly reached out to take his hand in his, lace their fingers together and bring Paul’s hand over his chest. He covered it with his other hand too, as if Paul’s might fly away if he let it touch the sky. His fingers were cold and trembling, and Paul could feel his heartbeat through his jumper. He wondered for a second where the hell he had been for two hours and how he had even found Paul, but then he realized he didn’t care. All that mattered was that he was right there with him. His heart grew three sizes. _He’s here_, his mind repeated to him. _He came back to you. He’s fine._

They stayed like that for a long moment, eyes lost in the starlit sky above them, the noise of a few lost crickets and vague cars in the distance being swallowed by the silence of the playground and the warmth of their reunion.

“I’m sorry,” Paul whispered after a while, the words sounding futile to his own ears.

John didn’t answer but squeezed Paul’s hand in his.

Another few minutes passed, and Paul’s heart slowly went back to a more regular rhythm. He was so relieved and so damn _happy_ to feel John’s heat next to him, to hear his breathing, that he would have been content to just stay all night right there, on that merry-go-round, with his hand in John’s.

“Why didn’t you tell me…?” John said, finally breaking the silence.

His voice was small, hoarse and full of hurt, and Paul breathed deeply. He tried to pinpoint the exact reason why and it was harder than expected. He had gone through so many feelings and emotions that night that his mind was a mess and thinking was painful. The truth was tough, but he was so tired he couldn’t have lied if he’d wanted to.

“It was… too hard.”

“You’re not the one who died, though,” John replied, with barely any heat in his voice.

“No. I’m the one who had to live with it,” Paul clapped back, turning his head to face John.

John turned his head to him too, and they just stared at each other for a while. After a few moments, slowly, very slowly, Paul saw John’s features soften. His defensive and tense position turned into one of fear, of worry. Of understanding. His eyes got shiny again, and he turned his face back to the sky. 

“Tell me how it happened,” He asked with a small voice.

Paul frowned, his chest constricting again. 

“John—”

“Please,” John cut him off, squeezing his hand again and keeping it safely above his wild heart. “I need to know.”

So, even though he had no idea whether it was a good idea or not, Paul breathed deeply to brace himself. He kept his eyes stuck to the sky, feeling incapable of looking at John, and told him everything.

What do you want to know?

_I was… I was shot, you said?_ Yeah. Several times. You, uh… you were pronounced dead when you arrived at the hospital. They- they said they couldn’t have saved you. Even if they had helped right away. _… When?_ An evening of December. In 1980. You were just… coming home. _Where?_ In the entrance of your apartment building, in New York. _I lived in New York?_ Yeah, with your wife. She was there, during… you know. _And who was it?_ A man, who was obsessed with you. Apparently he was pissed off that you had so much money and yet talked about, you know, peace and equality. A real psychopath. He stayed there, after. The police officers just… they didn’t have to look for him, he was just there. He said… You had said we were more popular than Jesus, and he hadn’t liked that. It was all just so… so stupid and… meaningless… _I said that…?_ You had. But you didn’t, this time. _… Is that what the Evening Standard thing was about?_ Yeah. _Why didn’t you tell me?_ I didn’t want to scare you. I didn’t… I thought it would precipitate it. Or that it would be, just, too unfair for you. I don’t know. I was mostly scared.

_How did you learn?_

What?

_How did you learn, for me…?_

…

I… I received a phone call. It was early morning, in Scotland. I don’t… I don’t even remember who it was. I’m not even sure what they said.

But it was the worst thing I’ve ever heard.

When Paul finally stopped talking, his voice was hoarse and wavering. He was thirsty, exhausted, and so miserable it felt like he was back to the morning of that fateful phone call. Feeling close to crying, he turned his head to John and saw tears rolling silently down his cheek. His mouth was pursed, and his jaw squared. Paul didn’t say anything about it, though; he deserved some privacy. Some space to fully integrate the horror and intimacy of what Paul had just told him. 

“Fourteen years left…” John said after a while, his small voice sounding fragile in the eerie silence of the park.

Paul breathed out slowly, trying to hold himself together. 

“No,” He countered, surprised to hear his own voice sounding so firm, so assured. “Don’t say that. Don’t even think that. It won’t happen this time. There’s no reason for it to happen. You’ll live, and grow old, and be the same annoying git you are until you’re all grey and wrinkled and stiff all over. You have decades and decades ahead of you.”

He observed the side of John’s face he could see from his position, wishing he could just erase the pain that was so clear on his lovely features.

“I’m sorry I was so horrible to you,” John suddenly replied, his voice still quivering but bravely pushing through. “I thought…” He swallowed with difficulty. “I had no idea. I knew you were lying to me and I couldn’t, just, understand _why_. I thought you didn’t trust me. That you just wished I was the old me you knew.”

He let out a shaky breath, and then chuckled self-deprecatingly.

“I feel like you’re only replacing _him_ with me, and I don’t— God, I’m so stupid…”

Paul abruptly turned on his side, scooting as close to John as he could and bringing his free hand to wipe his tears away and caress his hair. 

“No!” He replied hastily, hoping John could hear the sincerity in his words, fully integrate it. “No, no that’s not true. I want to be with you, John. Right now you. Seeing you die in my past, it… it’s… It was the worst thing I… I never got over it. When I arrived back here, and I saw you–” He stopped, letting out a chuckle. “– I can’t even begin to describe how I felt. It was everything. And it did feel like a new chance. Like… like I could finally save you. But I’m not with you because of that. I never thought I would end up with you, it just… I don’t know. It just happened. And yes you haven’t lived the same things my memory of you has, but you’re the same person. It’s you. Just… _you_. I wouldn’t trade you for anyone.”

John moved his head to stare into Paul’s eyes. He looked astonished, fragile. Like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing – and it dawned on Paul that he probably didn’t. He swore to himself in that instant that he would do anything to make him believe it. He put his forehead against his and felt just how much John’s whole body was trembling. 

“I don’t want to die,” John confessed quietly.

He sounded so small, so young and scared, that Paul sit back up immediately. He saw the confusion in John’s eyes but the next second Paul was pulling on his arm to force him to sit up too. Once John followed the request, Paul ignored the handrail and embraced him as close as he could, burying his nose in his neck and clenching his fingers on his thin jumper. Slowly, he felt John’s arms come up to hug him back. Paul never wanted to let go of him.

“You won’t. I won’t let anything happen to you, you hear me? Nothing,” He whispered fiercely against John’s shivering skin.

John hugged him tighter and they stayed like that for a while, losing track of time. After a moment, Paul started to feel his arms and legs go numb though, and the handrail was getting harder and colder against his ribs. He planted a small kiss on John’s neck and pulled back, still holding onto John’s arms.

“We should head back. It’s really late, and you’re cold as ice,” Paul said, rubbing his hands on his boyfriend’s arms to prove his point.

John tiredly nodded and with a last smile, Paul let him go to get up from the merry-go-round.

“Wait,” John suddenly said, his hand coming to grab Paul’s arm.

Paul stopped and turned around. John was looking at him with wide eyes. There was fear in them but also another strong emotion that Paul could not quite read – mostly because his face was partly shadowed by Paul himself.

“I lo—” John started again.

A dog barked loudly in the distance and John cut himself off abruptly, as if he’d suddenly stopped breathing. They both turned to the noise, on instinct, but a loud ‘¡cállate!’ erupted too a few seconds later and the dog quieted down. Then Paul turned back around and bowed his head a little towards John, encouraging him to finish his sentence.

“You’ll what?” He asked softly.

John’s face turned slowly back to Paul’s direction and his eyebrows furrowed in the tiniest, briefest frown. He looked down, then back up at Paul. He looked… oddly serene. Almost resilient.

“Nothing. I can’t wait to be in my bed,” He said with a smile that was not totally reaching his eyes.

Paul smiled back, choosing not to push him. He looked stressed and tired enough already.

“Me too. Come on, let’s go. It’s almost morning already.”

John nodded, and they both got up, slowly leaving the playground. There was not a single soul in sight, and the lights of the streets were terrible. Feeling his arm itch, Paul took John’s hand and laced their fingers together. He felt John let out a deep breath and step closer to him, their shoulders nearly brushing as they walked. 

And even though it was risky, and dangerous, and probably even stupid, they held hands the whole way home. 

After another fourty-five minutes of wandering around, half lost, they finally found the house. They entered it as discreetly as they could, and the hardest part was to calm Martha enough not to have her waking everyone up with her happy whining. They slowly went upstairs, walking on their tiptoes and hoping they wouldn’t bump into a sleepyhead going to the loo. They could barely see anything, but thankfully the near full moon was throwing some blessed light into the house through the few windows with opened shutters. Once in the corridor of the first floor, Paul planted a quiet kiss on the corner of John’s mouth and was about to walk further to his own room when John refused to let go of his hand, standing firm on his feet. Paul turned around, raising a questioning eyebrow, and vaguely discerned John pointing his head at his own room. Paul hesitated: he wanted nothing more than to fall asleep with John in his arms, but if anyone woke up before they did and noticed it, it would be a tough situation to explain. However, one squeeze from John’s hand was enough to decide him and they both entered John’s bedroom quietly, Martha on their tail.

Once the door was securely closed, John let go of Paul’s hand and went to turn on the little lamp on his bedside table. His room was bigger than Paul’s, and he had scattered clothes pretty much everywhere, true to himself. Paul started unbuttoning his jacket and approached the bed slowly, going to the other side.

“You want some pants?” John whispered to him from his opened suitcase lying on the ground.

“Yes please,” Paul whispered back.

Paul stripped down and folded his clothes to put them neatly on the other bedside table, on which there was a quite modern alarm clock. John handed some loose pants and a random t-shirt to him and as Paul was putting them on, John took off his glasses, stripped down and put on his own two-piece pyjama. They both opened the blanket and slid under it. Martha jumped on the bed, not caring whether she was allowed to or not, and her heat was a nice comfort on Paul’s feet.

“Give me the alarm,” John said, pointing to said object.

Paul obeyed, feeling too drained to question it. He watched John fumble with the alarm clock and then slip it under his pillow. He looked up to meet Paul’s confused gaze.

“So that you can leave the room before the others wake up,” John explained, still in a murmur.

Paul’s mouth formed a silent ‘oh’ and he followed John’s lead, settling cosily into the bed. Face to face, they looked at each other for a moment, a bit confused on how to do it, and then, yielding to what he had longed to do all week, Paul opened his arm and beckoned John over. With a tiny smile, John scooted closer and buried himself into Paul’s chest; his cheek against Paul's ribcage, his arm clinging to Paul’s back and their legs entangled together. Paul softly put his mouth on the fine line between John’s forehead and his hair, and breathed out slowly, feeling already the pull of sleep tug at his eyelids. 

Right before he fell asleep, a last thought crossed his mind. The only one that really mattered.

_He’s safe_.

Waking up the next day was as hard as expected. After a mere three hours in John’s bedroom, Paul had had to sneak out and go back into his own, Martha following him, only to notice that he was unable to fall back asleep now that he didn’t have John’s warmth against him. He heard everyone in the house slowly come up to their senses and start their day, and wished he could just stay in bed all day and wait for John to come back home to him.

Eventually, he did leave the comfort of his bed to join the others for breakfast. John was not in the kitchen, probably still in the shower, but Ringo, Maureen, and Neil were sitting at the table and munching on some pastries. Paul could hear the others' voices talking in the living-room.

“Hello Paul,” Maureen welcomed him with a smile when he went to sit next to her.

“Rough night, uh?” Neil added.

Just as he was advancing his chair closer to the table, Paul froze and sent him a cautious look.

“John said you went to another bar and got lost on the way back,” Ringo filled him in.

Paul turned to him and there was a strange glint in his eyes. As if he specifically wanted Paul to know that. But Paul was too tired to try and understand what it meant, so he just went along and nodded, pouring himself some welcomed coffee.

“Yeah. This city is a tricky one. I don’t think I’ll be of much use today,” He simply said.

Neil snorted at that and they heard cracking in the stairs, announcing someone’s arrival. Sure enough, a few seconds later, John entered the kitchen, still drying his hair with a towel. 

“Good morning, comrades,” He saluted them happily.

He sounded normal, and it was incredible that Paul knew him enough to be able to tell he was forcing his tone a tad too much for it to be sincere. He went around the table and when his gaze met Paul’s, he sent him the tiniest, shyest smile possible. It warmed Paul’s whole body.

John sat in front of Paul, and breakfast went relatively quietly. Paul tried his hardest not to just stare at John the whole time, and he thought he was doing a rather good job at that. Time came for the workers to go on set though, and it pained Paul as much as if they were to be separated for a desperately long time – which was obviously ridiculous.

As they were gathered in the hallway – with Paul leaning against the kitchen door, passive observer – Maureen went to hug John and Michael, Martha happily running into everyone’s legs. Realization of what was happening slowly dawned on Paul, soon confirmed by their following exchange.

“When’s your plane?” Michael asked politely.

“11am,” She answered. (Paul quickly glanced at his watch; it was already more than 8:30). “We’ll be leaving soon. I had the nanny on the phone yesterday, Zak has a bit of a cold so I can’t wait.”

“I bet. I’m glad we were able to bring our little one with us. It’s a drag to leave them when they’re so young!” He then turned to Ringo, who looked a little spooked – maybe he didn’t know either he was about to fly back to England –, and patted him on the back. “It was nice to meet you, Richard. Thanks again for the card games.”

“You’re very welcome,” Ringo nevertheless answered amiably.

“Are you going home today too?” Gabrielle asked Paul.

Paul’s eyebrows rose, and he instinctively looked at John, who was standing next to the door and just looked back at him silently. Paul turned back to Gabrielle and pouted, diving his hands into his pockets.

“Oh, well, my baby’s right here with me, so,” He answered, pointing his chin at Martha who was vigorously wagging her tail into John’s legs, and earning a few laughs in the process. “I’ve haven’t bought a plane ticket back yet. We’ll see.”

He quickly glanced at John’s face, who stayed impassive. Gabrielle smiled at him and turned to pet Martha.

“You’re a lovely girl, aren’t you?” She cooed at her, and Paul couldn’t stop the ridiculous pride filling him at that.

“Well, not to sound like a spoilsport but we have a majestic movie to film,” John intervened, already opening the door.

“You’re right. See you tonight darling,” Michael agreed, squeezing Gabrielle’s hand in his before leaning in for a kiss on her cheek, and Paul’s chest twisted with envy at how openly affectionate they were allowed to be.

Michael then went to join John at the opened door, and John turned to Paul.

“See you tonight, my love!” He told him dramatically.

Everyone laughed, but Paul’s smile stuck to his face for longer than the others.

Paul decided to follow Ringo and Maureen to the airport, and Ringo was still preparing his suitcase – and probably struggling to even find what was his. Paul was sitting in the living-room with Maureen, nursing a tea between his hands if only just to keep himself busy. Maureen looked tired, a bit relieved to be going home. She was so young still, and so unaware of what was happening to her husband, that Paul felt sad for her. 

“Are you okay, Mo?” He asked her gently when their conversation died down. “You look a bit out of it.”

She smiled at him and shook her head.

“It’s nothing. Just wondering what life at home will look like in the next few days,” She said.

Paul’s heart skipped a bit. It wasn’t surprising that she had noticed Ringo’s strange behaviour, but he could only hope she was not too suspicious either. If she was though, it was better to know it for sure.

“What do you mean? Things aren’t good with Ring…?” He probed.

She shook her head again, and it came to Paul that she maybe didn’t feel like she was supposed to talk about it.

“No, it’s not… I mean, we did have a fight before coming here. Maybe he told you. But I don’t know, sorry it’s not—” She cut herself off.

“He told me yeah, the night before we left?”

She looked up at him then, and the look she sent him was so thoughtful it brought more questions than answers.

“Yes. Well, it was mostly the morning after, but. Nothing to worry about, though.” She then got up, and added: “I’ll go see if he needs help to finish packing.”

She smiled at him and left the room, but something in her tone and her expression didn’t sit well with Paul. It sounded like it was _precisely_ something to worry about. And if they had had a bad fight on the morning they took the plane, it meant Ringo didn’t sleep on it. Or rather, that the nap he had taken that very afternoon, his last one as young Ringo, was ‘directly’ following their fight. Could it mean something, somehow…? After all, before going for his nap, Ringo had looked pretty worried about it. Asking Ringo now would be sort of pointless, but maybe it was a lead, something to dig further? He thought back to the day he arrived himself, but it seemed pretty insignificant. Maybe something _had_ happened, before he’d woken up in that hotel room, but he didn’t have the slightest recollection of it. He made a mental note to himself to try and find out more about the Saturday of his arrival. If there was some meaning behind it all, he owed to himself to discover it.

He was brought out of his thoughts by Ringo himself, who dropped his suitcase at the entrance of the living-room and came to sit next to Paul with a deep sigh. He lifted his hand to show to Paul the pair of gigantic yellow sunglasses he was holding.

“I found this in my suitcase. The days just keep getting stranger,” He told him.

Paul chuckled.

“It’s the bee look. It suits you.”

“I do like bees,” Ringo agreed. 

He put them away in his pocket and turned his head to Paul again. 

“So. What really happened last night?” He asked, lowering his voice a little even though they were alone. “John looked like a mess when I bumped into him in the corridor this morning.”

Paul sighed, letting his head drop against the back of the couch.

“I told him.”

“Told him what?”

Paul winced, questioning his decision all over again.

“About his death.”

Ringo didn’t answer right away, and after a few seconds of silence, Paul raised his head to see him gaping at him.

“On his birthday?!” Ringo asked with a disbelieving voice.

“I didn’t mean to,” Paul rushed to defend himself. “He’s smart. He knew something was wrong.”

Ringo looked down at that, thinking it over.

“How did he react?”

“How do you think,” Paul snorted. “He was shocked. Ran away. He came back two hours later, though. We talked a bit, and… yeah.”

Ringo didn’t answer, and Paul was filled with guilt once again.

“You think I shouldn’t have…?”

“Well, normally, I don’t think anyone should ever know about things like that. But then again, we are not in a normal situation,” His friend answered slowly. “It won’t happen, this time, though. It’s not like… like a disease, or something. We can prevent it, right? We have to.”

Paul nodded, getting lost in thoughts again. 

“Yes. Yes, we do.”

Saying goodbye to Ringo at the airport was emotional for Paul. They hugged for a good while, something they rarely did in their younger days, and which Neil brought up in a chuckle. Ringo was less pale than he had been in the first days, but he still looked a bit worse for wear. Paul promised to visit him when he would come back to England, and as he was waving at them at the gate, he realized he still didn’t know _when_ he would go back. He had to, at some point – even though he wished he could just stay with John until the end of the filming. Neil pointed out that since they were at the airport, he might as well buy his ticket, and Paul reluctantly agreed. Feeling pressured and expected to go home as early as possible (even though he knew Neil would never judge him), he settled for a flight back on the next morning, which would leave him a little more time with John. Not nearly enough, but still.

The rest of the day went on lazily. Paul and Neil were both too worn out from their night out to actually do anything so they spent their day by the pool lying on sunbeds, soaking up the last rays of the warm Spanish sun, watching Martha run after squirrels and talking about the most random things. Paul tried to disconnect his brain for a while and even felt his eyes grow heavier at some point during the afternoon, the strain of the night finally catching up to him. A short nap surely wouldn’t hurt anyone.

_He was in a dressing room, alone. He was trying to play on his guitar but there was adhesive tape all over it and the more he tried to tear it off, the more there was. He realized after a while that someone was talking to him, but at first he couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, just that their tone sounded strange – disappointed, sad almost. He tried to look up to see who it was but they kept moving around the room and—_

Something infinitely soft was in his hair, delicately brushing it. Paul slowly came back to his senses and realized he was not sleeping anymore and there _was_ someone’s hand in his hair. He blinked back to life and noticed quickly that the sun had started going down already. Someone had put a thin blanket on him and Martha was sitting in front of him, wagging her tail like a champion, tongue out. He turned his head and faced John, who was squatting next to him. When their eyes met, John gave him a small smile. He looked tired and still a bit pale, and he wasn’t wearing his round glasses – which could explain why his face was so close to Paul’s.

“Hey,” He murmured to Paul.

He leant in to kiss him but Paul pulled back in alarm just before their lips touched. He sharply turned to the opened glass doors of the house, just behind them. His heart had gone from normal to panic in a second.

“No one’s here,” John chuckled. “They went out to eat at the beach. We didn’t want to wake you up, and I was too tired to go out.”

Paul observed him with wide eyes, still a bit spooked. John’s hand caressed his hair once again.

“It’s okay,” He said, soft, so soft. “We’re alone. Well, except for your baby, of course.”

He pointed his chin at the other side of the sunbed and Paul laughed when he followed his gaze. Martha was trying to catch her own tail. Paul turned his head back to John and let it fall against the sunbed.

“I’m leaving tomorrow morning,” He confessed quietly, searching John’s gaze.

But John merely sighed, glancing at the tranquil water of the pool next to them.

“I know. Neil told me.”

Paul observed him for a moment longer, taking in everything he could about his face. He expected to find disappointment or even displeasure on it, but there was only sadness. So Paul moved his bottom to the side of the sunbed and patted the space he had just freed next to him.

“Come here,” He said, 

John stood up and lifted his leg to put it on the sunbed but Martha suddenly jumped in-between them, licking Paul’s face and John’s arm in the process.

“Martha, no!” Paul laughed.

“Move away, it’s my turn!” John laughed too, trying to push the already quite big dog out of the sunbed.

They finally managed to push her off – petting her too, poor thing, she had just obeyed – and John quickly assessed the space left on the sunbed.

“I should go under, I’m heavier,” He told Paul.

“Why there’s no need, there’s space right here.”

Paul showed him the space he had freed again but John just tried to push him off the sunbed instead.

“Move over. I’m not a girl, I’m not sitting on your knees.”

“Sod off! Stop it, just come in,” Paul retorted, laughter hiding in his voice.

With a deep sigh, John finally gave up and climbed on the sunbed. It was a very tight fit, and a good part of John’s body actually was _on_ Paul, but it worked – despite John grunting that it was too tight. Paul adjusted the blanket over them both, slid an arm around John’s chest (and his heart swelled when John wasted no time linking their fingers together) and snuggly put his chin on his shoulder. John’s hair was partially falling on his face, and he smelt like sweat, dust and, faintly, the same old coconut shampoo. Paul buried his nose into his hair and closed his eyes.

“Are you smelling me?” John suddenly asked, and Paul felt the reverberations of his voice in his sternum, under his hand.

“You need a shower,” Paul replied, keeping his eyes closed.

John chuckled; it rattled on his ribs and sent tickles up Paul’s arm.

“Stop smelling me then, you git.”

But Paul only buried his nose deeper.

“No.”

John chuckled again and slowly relaxed his body against Paul's. They stayed like that for a while, breathing calmly, with Martha playing with anything she could find at their feet. Paul realized suddenly that John’s hand was doing very specific gestures now. As if… He glanced at his arm. Yes. _He was combing the hair of Paul’s arms with his fingers_. When he finally noticed Paul’s gaze on him, John looked up, all innocent.

“How come you have such hairy forearms? I’ve always wondered.”

Paul just stared at him with a frown, then turned more fully to him and squinted at him, a bit incredulous.

“Do you actually expect me to have an answer to that?”

John shrugged, an amused smile floating on his lips.

“You should have one. Don’t you have answers to everything, now?” He answered, his tone hovering between sarcasm and curiosity.

“Sod off.”

Paul looked down at said forearms. He had been a bit self-conscious about them, a lifetime ago.

“I look like Chewbacca,” He added absently.

“Who?”

Paul flashed him a cheeky grin, relieving in the confusion on his friend’s face. Or at least, what he could see of it.

“You’ll get that one in ten years,” He just said.

John squinted at him.

“Spoilsport.”

Paul giggled - downright _giggled_. Another moment passed.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” John confessed, quiet.

“You would,” Paul hummed in agreement, knowing instantly what John was talking about.

“I think… I think I won’t ask you questions about the future, anymore. I mean, my future.”

Paul started caressing John’s thumb with his.

“You haven’t asked that many,” He pointed out.

“Yeah, I know, but… it makes me feel weird. I always believed there was some sort of destiny for me. Like, I was going to be famous and successful and I just knew it, you know? That’s like what drove me this far, in a way. It made me believe in what we’re doing. But this whole future thing…” He sighed, and Paul left him all the time he needed to gather his thoughts. “It was funny, at first, because even though I _know_ you’re old now, you look just like yourself so I don’t have to be consciously aware of it all the time. Sometimes I do think about it and it’s… odd, you know, but I can get over it because you’re still you. You just know a lot of things, and you talk nonsense about tiny computers—”

“Come on, you know they’re called tablets,” Paul chuckled lightly.

“Tablets, folders, whatever,” John smiled. “The point is, it’s as if we were talking about a movie that’s coming out next year, you know? We know it’ll happen, and it’ll just happen when it happens. I don’t care if this time those things will happen for sure in 40 years. It’s the same.”

He stopped, and Paul felt him take a big breath of air.

“But… _This_…” He started again.

Even though it was nearly impossible, Paul tried to scoot even closer to him. He could feel his heartbeat through his whole body, as if they had melted into one.

“This is… different. I feel it, here.” He said, moving Paul’s hand over his heart. “It’s real. It may or may not happen for me, but I know somewhere deep in me that it’s real. And I’m glad you told me, because having you lying to me was horrible and I don’t want to live that again, but. I don’t think I could handle another truth like that. I feel like it might just break me.”

Paul’s throat suddenly felt all closed off, and he had to swallow hard to be able to talk.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered.

John turned his body to face him a little more. He was frowning and shaking his head.

“Don’t be,” He told him, his hand coming up to gently caress his cheek. “I mean it. I’m happy you told me. I would have made your life hell if you hadn’t, honestly. And all day today, I just… I kept thinking about you, and Julian. How much I, um… I care, about both of you. So, this whole ‘you were shot dead’ thing reminds me what’s important. What really matters. And that’s a good thing, innit?”

He sighed deeply again, and let his hand fall from Paul’s face, his gaze lost over their joined hands. Paul couldn’t stop staring at him.

“I guess you’ve figured that much by now, but you mean a lot to me, Paul.”

Paul froze for a second, the butterflies in his stomach waking up and twirling around again.

“You do too,” He finally replied gently. “To me, I mean.”

John smiled at him, and it was Paul’s favourite: the shy, almost disbelieving one. But soon it turned into a self-deprecating grimace.

“God, I really sound like a bird, don’t I?” He said, his voice sarcastic again.

“Shut up,” Paul replied before kissing him.

John kissed him back with a hand on his jaw, and Paul mentally thanked the owners of the house to have walled their garden.

They didn’t dare sleep in the same room again that night, but they did enjoy their freedom over there before the others came back. Paul was still not used to the hiding, to the secrecy, but he tried his best not to let it bring him down and to cherish even more the private moments they shared. John wouldn’t come back for nearly another month, and Paul didn’t want to lose their time together stressing about it – which was, of course, easier said than done. He barely slept at all that night too, and exhaustion was starting to pull on his muscles, tearing at his back. His plane was quite early, and he had to leave even before John and Michael. When the morning arrived, they planned when they passed each other in the corridor to meet quickly in the bathroom to say properly goodbye, and Paul felt just like a kid about to be sent away to the worst summer camp possible. They only had a few minutes because the others needed to get ready too and Neil was already stressing about the plane, so after a short hug and a quick kiss they had to leave the bathroom and pretend they were joyful and ready, when all Paul really wanted to do was pout and cling to John. 

Suitcase in hand and Martha at the end of her leash, Paul walked towards the car, following Neil. When he turned around, the others were gathered at the open front door, waving at him, but all he could see were almond-shaped eyes silently watching him leave again.

Paul had been home for barely two days when he received a phone call in the middle of the night. 

He had been sleeping for most of the time, happy to just see Thisbe again and to re-adapt to his London life. He was miserable, and worried about John. He was worried about Ringo too, and now that he was back to his instruments, he was starting to get worried about the band and their future as well. Everything was blurry now, just when he had gotten used to expecting almost everything. Worry made him restless, and restlessness kept him from sleeping well, which did nothing to help his initial sleeping issues.

So when the phone rang that night, he immediately woke up and stayed for a few seconds lying on his bed, confused. When reality finally got to him though, he ran to the living-room, slipping on his socks and barely avoiding the wall, and picked the phone up. He was met on the other end by George’s quivering voice.

“Paul?”

“Yeah, hi! Is everything alright?” Paul rushed to ask, rubbing his sleepy eyes.

“Yeah, um,” George said, sounding weird. And then, after a long awkward pause, he added: “Do you want to meet your goddaughter?”


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A HUGE thank you to all of you, I will answer to your incredibly lovely messages!! They all make me smile like a lunatic, even bringing tears to my eyes sometimes :')  
I hope you'll like this one, for some reason it was realy hard to write. It's a bit short though, but the next ones should be longer!

Paul froze, hand still on his eye.

“…What?”

“Your goddaughter,” George repeated, and it was clear he was trying to restrain himself from singing it. “She’s here, she’s born!”

A couple of seconds passed before the words fully hit Paul, making him feel dizzy with giddiness for a moment.

“Oh my— She’s born? You’re a dad?!”

“I’m a dad!” George repeated, his voice distinctly higher now.

A big smile broke on Paul’s face and he raked his hand through his hair, having still some trouble to fully process the information. He even pinched his own arm, needing to feel the sharp pain to make sure this was all real. This was new, and real, and it was _good_.

“George!” He exclaimed again after a few seconds.

“Yes?”

“You’re a dad!”

“I know!” George laughed in the phone.

“When can I come?!”

There was some ruffling on the other end of the line, muffled voices in the background. Paul tried to wait patiently. He was so excited he couldn’t stop pacing in front of the phone, now totally awake.

“Hum, we are allowed to have one other visitor whenever, apparently. I don’t know, you can come in a couple of hours, so that Pattie sleeps for a bit? Her mum should arrive too at some point, but the more the merrier, eh?” George said suddenly.

A flash of embarrassment went through Paul.

“I can come later if that’s eas—”

“No! No, come, for real,” George cut him off immediately. “Come on, that’s why I called you, ain’t it?”

Paul smiled again, feeling warm all over. 

“Okay. Okay. Where are you then?”

“St Mary’s, in Paddington,” George announced, and there was so much pride in his voice already that Paul felt overwhelmed by it.

He raised his wrist to check on his watch only to realize that he was not wearing it – since it was still the middle of the freaking night.

“Alright. See you in a few, then,” He told George.

“See you later, godfather!”

Paul chuckled and hung up. Godfather. Of a child he didn’t know yet – of a child who had never existed before. The feeling was strange, exhilarating. It was so… _normal_, so natural. It was undoubtedly the most natural thing that had happened since he’d come back to the past. He went to the kitchen and looked up at the clock on the wall. 4:43. 

George was a dad.

When Paul entered the maternity wing of the hospital, a few hours later, he felt almost out of his body. The ghost of a soul floating above himself, watching his limbs move from afar but having no control over them. For some reason, he was nervous, as if this was an exceptionally fragile situation, some cloud of happiness that would fade away the second he would touch it. It felt unreal, and the fact that the day was barely waking up too only added to the eeriness of it all. He did not know what to expect; this was a mystery. Something new and beautiful, but also fortuitous to Paul. He had lost the habit of being surprised. He had been surprised by the whole thing with John, of course, but this was different. This was bigger: a new life! Brand new and brimming with possibilities! His feet were moving of their own accord, treading confusedly but with determination into this new universe where George Harrison had a daughter. He had brought his camera in his satchel bag, and had bought a tiny stuffed rabbit and a bouquet of daffodils on the way, so he was by all means very much prepared. He asked the receptionist where Pattie’s room was, and had to refuse to sign any autographs in the hallway to the other patients. He couldn’t tell them why he was here – even if he was sure they already had a pretty good idea. It was not his news to share.

He finally arrived at the right room, and his heart was beating loudly in his ears. He tightened his fist around the flowers, and raised his free hand to knock on the door. His knuckles had barely rasped against the wood that the door was pulled wide open and he was met with a worn-out but beaming George. 

“Hi!” George whispered, immediately tackling Paul into a hug. “Pattie just fell asleep.”

Paul hugged him back as good as he could, the gifts still clutched in one hand and a chuckle on his lips. 

“Oh, sorry. Hi,” He answered quietly.

A warm and tingling feeling spread through his body and he realized with surprise that the emotion slowly melting away from him was fear. He had been truly scared of what to find behind that door: how George would welcome him, how he would react himself. But it was still his George, and when he looked at a sleeping Pattie and saw her round, exhausted but downright _glowing_ face, he knew everything was alright. 

George finally let go of him and while he soundly closed the door, Paul approached the bed carefully, afraid to make too much sound, to take too much space. He lowered his gaze to the bundle safely tucked in Pattie’s arms and…

“Gracie, this is Paul. He’s my friend, and he’ll look after you too,” George murmured in an impossibly soft voice, coming up next to Paul.

Paul felt happy tears prick his eyes. He glanced at George and then back to the tiny, so tiny pink (well, rather red-ish) face popping up in the middle of the cream-coloured cloths. Her head was a little too oval, probably from a difficult childbirth, and she had just a tiny tuff of clear hair on her forehead. Her still puffy eyes were closed, and the tiniest hand was clenched around a bit of wool. Paul had always loved babies, even strangers’, but he knew on the spot that this one had already captured his soul and heart.

“Gracie then?” He asked just as quietly, his voice catching a little in his throat.

“Yes. Grace Diana Harrison,” George stated proudly.

“She’s beautiful, George,” Paul breathed out, sending a warm smile to his friend.

“She is. She is a mini-Pattie,” George replied, and there was so much pride and awe in his voice that Paul could only beam at him.

George’s face was so soft, so reverent, that Paul fished out his camera to snap a picture of him. It really was reassuring and heart-warming to see him so happy, especially after the doubts he had shared with Paul at the beginning of Pattie’s pregnancy.

“I bought daffodils,” Paul said uselessly, showing the bouquet to George.

“I see that,” George chuckled. “Thank you.”

He took the flowers from Paul and went to put them on the dresser in the corner of the room. The way he kept throwing glances at Pattie and the baby reminded Paul so much of the births of his own children that he had to look away for a while. He searched into his bag, a welcome diversion. He pulled out the stuffed rabbit and again, showed it to George. 

“And a bunny.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have. I already have my own teddy,” George joked on a flat tone, approaching the bed once again.

“Sod off,” Paul snorted.

George chuckled.

“We’ll give it to her. Here,” He said. 

And then he leant over the bed and took, ever so gently, the bundle of cloths from Pattie’s arms into his own. He was holding it as if Gracie was made of porcelain, and it was a striking sight; young George carrying a new-born baby. Paul had never seen him like this – not even with Dhani, whom he had met only after a few months. He went around the bed to come closer to them. The baby stirred in her father’s arms, her eyes still safely closed. Paul brushed her little hand with the rabbit, waiting to see if she would grasp it – and she did, her minuscule fingers tightening around the fluffy ears. She unconsciously frowned and pursed her lips, and her whole expression was so comically _George_ that Paul let out a short laugh.

“Don’t laugh at my child,” George chastised him with a fond voice, his eyes unable to leave her.

“I’m not. I love her already,” Paul retorted with a big grin.

George grinned even wider.

“Me too. She’s already my favourite person ever. It’s crazy, I can’t quite believe it,” He said, still as quietly. Then, chuckling, he added: “You know, I called Ringo earlier, he sounded real stunned too.”

Paul smiled tightly. He couldn’t even imagine the shock for poor Ringo. He made a mental note to give him a call later that day, check if he was alright.

“You wanna hold her?” George asked quietly, bringing him out of his thoughts.

Paul nodded and suddenly, he found himself with a tiny human being in the crook of his elbow. She was still holding onto the bunny, which was resting over the cloths, and she didn’t seem phased at all to be moved around. She was incredibly light, and Paul was pretty sure she didn’t weigh much at all.

“Hello Gracie,” He told her softly. “I’m really happy to meet you, you know.” 

Grace scrunched up her nose a little, and that was all the response he needed.

It was barely a few days later that Paul saw George, Pattie and Grace again. They had gone back to their house, and he knew Ringo and Maureen were supposed to come and visit too. It was Ringo who had specifically asked him to be there when Paul had called him the day of Grace’s birth. The poor man was so nervous about seeing George again that he had said he needed Paul to be his lifeline.

That was how Paul found himself in Kinfauns, talking with Pattie and George, happily observing Grace in her crib, in their bedroom. The three of them probably looked kind of idiotic, just sitting next to one another on the bed and looking at the sleeping baby, but the sight had something very peaceful, soothing. She was a very calm baby, so far – a heavy sleeper, which led George to falsely assume that ‘Babies aren’t so hard after all’. Paul had snorted internally at the statement, and some sadistic part of him couldn’t wait for Gracie to start crying and pooping all the time like any baby was bound to do at some point. That would teach him, the smug bastard.

When the doorbell rang, George sprang to his feet but Paul followed suit. He knew opening the door to face George would be a lot for Ringo, and he really wanted to ease the reunion for him as much as he could. He probably was drowning in nervousness already. Or well, at least in jitters.

“Stay here, I’ll get it,” He proposed right away, waving at them to stay put.

“Suit yourself,” George smiled in response – and Paul realized with a start that he had never seen him smile that much for so many consecutive hours. “But your shoe laces are untied.”

Paul quickly and messily tied his shoe laces and milked that happy discovery all the way downstairs. George was clearly on cloud nine, and it was the best thing to see, really. And it was also really reassuring to feel that the two of them were really good friends again. Despite everything that had gone wrong the first time, and despite how odd Paul had probably been when he’d first arrived here, George trusted him. Lost in his thoughts, Paul had almost forgotten why he was going to the door in the first place and just opened it abruptly, carelessly.

“Oh my God,” Ringo sighed deeply, a hand on his heart.

Maureen, who was carrying Zak in her arms, quickly frowned at him with an uneasy smile on her lips before turning her dark eyes to Paul. 

“Hi Paul,” She said. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Hi! Sorry, didn’t mean to surprise you,” Paul answered easily. “Hello Zak!”

He went for a kiss on Maureen’s cheek and enjoyed the occasion to send a worried glance to Ringo. His friend shook his head at him with rounded accusatory eyes. Apparently, assuming he would be extremely tense had not been that far-fetched at all. The Starkeys followed him inside just as the stairs creaked, announcing the arrival of Pattie and George. As Pattie was welcoming Maureen in, Paul closed the door and briefly squeezed Ringo’s arm in a futile attempt to reassure him. Ringo sent him a wide, terrorized look, and the next second George was right up in front of them.

“Ring! It’s been so long, I feel like I haven’t seen you in years,” George exclaimed happily, engulfing Ringo in a quick hug. 

“Yeah…” Ringo merely breathed out.

His answer was weak, and Paul could see from his back that he was all stiff. His arms came up to hug George back but he was too slow, and soon enough George was already turning to Mo. George’s smile was blinding, and when Paul looked at Ringo’s face again, he was white as a ghost, silently staring at their very much alive friend. 

“You okay?” Paul asked him in a whisper.

Ringo nodded, and a slow, hesitant smile appeared on his face. George turned around again and motioned for them to follow him before literally jumping up the stairs. That got a short laugh to burst out of Ringo, and Paul felt his own worry melt out of him. It was alright: Ringo was shocked and definitely being weird, but at least George seemed to be too caught up in his happy bubble to notice. They all went back to the room, and were welcomed by a crying Grace (she did cry! Finally!) who thankfully started to calm down a little when her mother picked her up in her arms and sat down on the bed with her. 

“Oh my Goodness, Pattie, she’s so lovely,” Maureen said, sitting down as well and letting Zak crawl away happily on the bed. 

“She’s usually very quiet,” Pattie chuckled, her arms gently rocking the baby. “The noise must have disturbed her.”

“She’s marvellous,” George added.

He then good-naturedly poked Ringo’s arm, which only made him visibly startle. George frowned and turned more fully to him.

“Are you alright, mate? You look a little pale,” He said. 

Paul, who was standing against the wardrobe with his hands crossed in his back, intercepted Maureen’s sharp look at that.

“Yeah, I’m… Yeah,” Ringo stammered. “But, you? I mean, how are _you_?”

George chuckled.

“I’m great. You shouldn’t worry about me, it’s Pattie who did all the work.”

“Yeah, of course, of course, yes,” Ringo rushed to answer, some red appearing on his cheeks. “I’m sorry, Pattie. How are you? Not too exhausted…?”

Pattie smiled and exchanged a knowing glance with Maureen, while Zak was sitting cross-legged next to her, observing Grace with a fascinated expression. 

“Yes, please, I’m the one who had to bring that little one out,” Pattie laughed. “I’m kidding, don’t worry. I’m alright. George’s been helping a lot.”

“Anyone want some tea? I’m going to prepare some,” George piped up, radiant energy literally pouring out of him. 

“I’m coming with you,” Ringo immediately answered. 

Paul watched them go out together, a small smile on his lips. He stayed with Pattie, Maureen and the kids for a while, wanting to let his two friends some privacy, but after a moment he couldn’t wait any longer. He was anxious – and, well, curious. Watching Ringo living this true miracle had something very pure, wholesome, to it. It made him see again the good things that had come from their time-travelling. He excused himself and went downstairs, turning towards the kitchen and noticing his shoe laces had come undone again. He stopped and stooped to tie them, and noticed he could hear the boys talking from the kitchen.

“… to get your knickers in a twist, really. It’s not that bad,” George was saying, sounding like he was rolling his eyes.

“It is. You should really stop. And it’s not great for the kid either, you know,” Ringo answered softly.

“I’m not giving her cigarettes with her milk, you know,” George laughed.

Paul finished lacing his shoes, but stayed squatting in the hallway. He didn’t want to eavesdrop and was getting up to join them when George started speaking again and had him freezing on his spot. 

“Don’t tell me you’re going to do like Paul. Seriously.”

“Uh… what do you mean?”

Paul silently tip-toed closer to the door. His throat was all closed off, his fingers feeling cold. A sinking feeling fell upon him; maybe he had 

“You know, with how weird he’s been this year and everything. He hasn’t bit my head off about smoking in a while, though, but still. It doesn’t mean you should take over.”

George laughed, and Ringo went along, but Paul could hear how strained and odd he sounded.

“Do you know why he’s been weird?” Ringo asked, and Paul’s stomach tightened even more. “Like, did you notice some things?”

“Not really. Not more than last time we talked about it. But well, at least these days he doesn’t look as sad anymore, so that’s a win, eh? Maybe you were right, maybe he just needed us to show him we were here for him, you know.”

“Oh, he… yeah. Yes, I guess.”

“Are you sure you are just tired? You don’t quite look like yourself, mate,” George said. 

Paul took that as his cue and shook himself out of his stupor. He made sure to clear his throat before entering the kitchen, not wanting to walk into an awkward situation. Ringo was half-sitting on the table, and George was leaning against the kitchen counter, dropping tea bags into the pot. There was a cigarette dangling from his long fingers. He turned to Paul, caught how his eyes had zeroed in on the cigarette and flashed him a smile.

“Alright, I’m gonna stub it out, don’t worry. Ringo’s lectured me already,” He told him with a chuckle.

Paul simply smiled tightly in response and leaned against the table, next to Ringo. He was not sure his voice would come out properly if he spoke too soon. George put out his cigarette, raising his eyebrows in a mocking manner. 

“So you’ve decided to stop, uh?” He started again, looking at Ringo with a grin. “Are John and I the only ones left?”

“John has reduced his use a little, though,” Paul pointed out, toying with the cups George had gotten out on the table already.

“Why, you bored him into stopping too?” George joked.

“I didn’t _bore_ either of you into anything, thank you very much,” Paul countered.

“Maybe his girlfriend did,” Ringo piped in.

Paul’s head snapped up to him.

“His what?” He asked, hoping his voice didn’t sound as shocked as he suddenly felt.

“His girlfriend,” Ringo repeated, turning genuine eyes to him. “I asked him, in Spain, how it was going with Cy—”

Paul widened his eyes at him, slightly shaking his head. Thankfully George was idly looking at the tea bags still floating in the pot.

“—_not_, being, with Cynthia. And, uh. He said he was seeing someone else,” Ringo finished, looking a bit shook about this last minute saving.

George raised a curious eyebrow at that, and Paul tried his hardest to look as expressionless as possible.

“Did he? Who is it?”

“Don’t know. He didn’t tell me,” Ringo said to him with a pout. Then, turning to Paul. “Did he tell you?”

“No,” Paul promptly answered. “No, no, I… No.”

“Damn,” George said. “I bet it’s someone from the film. Or a fan.”

He turned off the oven and took the pot.

“It’s weird he didn’t tell you, though,” He told Paul with a piercing gaze. “I thought you lads were thick as thieves lately.”

Paul opened his mouth to answer – what, he didn’t know – but at that moment the stairs creaked and saved him; George perked up at the sound, and prompted Ringo and Paul to grab the cups. They met the others in the hallway and they all went to the living-room (except for Grace, who had been left sleeping in her crib upstairs) for tea time. It took a while for Paul to clear the fog in his head and to manage to _be there_ with his friends, the recent information still floating in the front of his mind. It was a lovely afternoon though, and it seemed like Ringo was recovering well from his reunion with George. He did look a little too star struck once in a while, but Paul had warned him about it on the phone so generally he was self-conscious enough to catch himself before it got too awkward. 

As they were saying their goodbyes to the young parents, Paul was feeling odd. The fact that John was openly stating he was seeing someone was disturbing, for one. Even if he wasn’t saying who – and really, telling Ringo was the safest choice ever –, it still stressed Paul a little bit. But what bothered him the most was the conversation he had overheard. He had foolishly thought that except for John and apparently Brian, nobody had noticed the changes in his behaviour, but he had been wrong. George and young Ringo had noticed, and had even talked about it – likely multiple times. It was not a big deal per say, and George had even said he looked less sad these days, but it still meant Paul arriving back here had disrupted their lives too, in a way. And that was just… an odd feeling.

Paul was getting to his car, his keys already in his hand, when Ringo jogged up to him and almost bumped into him in his hastiness. Paul stabilized him, catching him by the arms.

“Sorry,” He chuckled. “Running is so easy, I’ll never get over it.”

Paul laughed and let him go.

“Here, before you go. I made a list of everything I’ve done the day before I arrived here,” Ringo started again, briefly showing him piece a paper from his pocket.

For some strange reason, the sight woke up the dormant anxiety in Paul’s stomach.

“Wow. You’re efficient,” He noted weakly.

“I thought, maybe it could help. Maybe we can find some pattern. There has to be one, right? There’s always one in movies.”

Paul winced. He didn’t know why, but it felt like he was put on the spot.

“We’re not in a movie, Ring…”

“I know, I know, but. Anyway. I realized I talked about Mo the day before I left. That can’t be a coincidence, can it? I don’t talk about her every day. But that day, we talked about her with Barbara.”

“About what?” Paul frowned. 

Ringo shrugged and looked away. Paul had the strange sensation that he didn’t want to fall into too many details.

“I’m… just,” He started. “About how hard it was during our Beatles days. How I used to leave her alone a lot. You know.”

Paul hummed, looking down and thinking hard about this. What had _he_ talked about, on his last day? It had happened so many months before, he was not sure he could remember it at all. James had come, for supper – they had talked about football, and music a little… maybe they had mentioned the Beatles too, but it wasn’t like Paul never talked about it. 

“Did you talk about Linda too?” Ringo suddenly said, breaking into his thoughts. 

Paul looked up and frowned again. 

“What?”

“Did you talk about Linda the day before you arrived? Since for me it was Mo…?” Ringo repeated, looking hopeful.

“No,” Paul shook his head, thinking about it but coming up only with a frustrating blank. “No I didn’t, I don’t think so. And I haven’t even met Linda here, anyway.”

“Oh,” Ringo answered softly.

He sounded disappointed, but looked to his car again and brightened a little. He took out the folded paper from his pocket and handed it to Paul.

“Well, we’ll find something. Take the list. Tell me if there’s anything that’s the same for you, yeah?”

“Sure,” Paul replied with a tight smile.

Ringo waved him goodbye, and soon after he was entering his car, leaving Paul alone, standing next to his Mini Cooper. He got into his car and turned on the engine, the paper sitting on the passenger seat. He drove the whole way back trying not to stress about it. Ringo was right, it could be helpful. It was logical, even, to start with going over what he had done the day before he left. It was the most logical thing to do. But it bugged Paul, because he hadn’t done it. And no matter how hard he thought about it, he could not figure out why. 

Once he finally reached his garage, Paul parked his car and turned off the engine. He waited for a moment, willing the dispensable anxiety away, and finally started reading the list. There was nothing extraordinary: he had had a phone call with his granddaughter, had gone for a stroll with his wife, and had watched a movie. He had had a friend over for dinner, some Carson, and they had talked about their younger years, especially their marriages, and how the influence their work had had on them. Paul paused as his memories slowly flowed and formed in his mind. He _had_ talked about his work with Nancy, the night before. Not about his marriages, but he remembered Nancy saying it was good that with time, he had learned to see a bit better the people around him. Not to overlook them, or their feelings. They had talked about John too, that night. Paul had told her again how much things would have been different between them if they had talked more from the beginning. Talking about John in the future did not occur that rarely, far from it, but realizing it now left a strange sensation in Paul. One he could not put words upon, and that he did not like very much. He folded the paper again, slipped it into the gloves box and left the garage on a briskly pace, hoping to leave that strange sensation behind him too.

A few days later, it was very early in the morning, as usually, and Paul was idly playing with Martha in the living-room, sitting cross-legged on the carpet. At first he had wanted to go out and take her for a walk, but the frost crystallising at the corners of the windows had dissuaded him. It was perhaps a little too early.

The phone rang right next to him and Paul picked it up lazily.

“Hello.”

“Hello, love,” A joyful voice answered.

A grin broke on Paul’s face.

“How are you?” He asked gently.

“Bored out of my mind,” John answered with a deep illustrative sigh.

Paul’s grin widened and he started petting Martha, who had come to snuggle him in his lap.

“That much, eh?”

“You wouldn’t even believe. I’m this close to setting the set on fire just to create some diversion.”

“You should steal some equipment. Put them where they’re not supposed to be,” Paul proposed.

“You know what, that’s not a bad idea. I’ll consider it,” John assured on a convinced tone.

Paul laughed and Martha sharply turned her head to him. Paul soothed her and glanced at his watch in the process.

“Why are you calling so early? Did you fall out of bed?”

“Just wanted to say hi to Martha,” John answered straight away.

Paul frowned incredulously, his hand stilling over the dog.

“How—?”

“You’re answering two seconds late each time. I know you’re petting her right now,” John said, sounding amused.

Paul chuckled in disbelief and exchanged a look with Martha.

“Okay, I’ll give it to you, you’re good,” He conceded.

“I know.”

“Do you know when you are coming back, then?” Paul asked, feeling all cheerful.

Martha got up, getting bored, and went happily to eat in the kitchen. Paul watched her go distractedly.

“Yes, on the 6th! I’ll arrive a bit late, though. And I have an art thing on the evening of the 7th, but otherwise I’m sort of free, for now,” John replied casually.

“An art thing?” Paul asked, interested. 

“Yeah, an exposition by some Japanese gal. It’s supposed to open the day after and—”

Some part of Paul kept hearing the words John was saying, but his ears suddenly filled with white electric noise, tension blossoming in the middle of his head to rapidly spread to his jaws, his eyes, his neck. Sounds flowed through him, meaningless; his mind caught on a loop over three words. 

“Some Japanese gal,” He repeated blankly, his own voice sounding far away from him.

“Yeah, Yono Oko,” John confirmed easily. “Maybe I can get you to come too, if you want? Not sure what it’ll be worth but could be fun? There’ll be food at least, and also—”

Paul zoned out again. 

_Yoko_. 

He was going to meet Yoko. _Again_. Because of fucking course he was. Paul's mind started running a mile a minute, and all the memories of her, and of John and her, flashed before his eyes, flooding and smothering any rational thinking. Yoko the day John introduced her to them, Yoko at the studio with them, quietly studying them from her chair next to John, Yoko when the band was exploding, always with a strange smile on her lips…

“Paul? Are you still here?” John’s worried voice slowly pierced the fog.

“…Yes. Um. Yes,” He said, feeling stunned.

“You wanna come, then? Should I ask for another ticket?”

He rose to sit properly on the couch this time, his back starting to hurt from having stayed hunched for so long. He frowned to himself, rubbing his face in a desperate attempt to shake the shock away.

“Um… No, no I’m… No, it’s fine. I can’t go, I already have plans,” He lied, pushing the words through his dry throat. “Sorry.”

“Oh,” John replied in a small voice. “Well, it’s near your place, so I can still come to yours afterwards, right? It’s like, a good excuse to sleep over at yours.”

A couple of seconds passed before Paul realized he was supposed to answer.

“Yeah. Yeah, totally.” 

“Okay.”

John had visibly hesitated for a second, and his voice was even softer than before. But Paul was too upset to read what it meant, or to understand it. Or to even register anything beyond the fact that John was going to _meet Yoko again_.

“I have to go,” John said again, sounding a bit off. “You’ll call me, right?”

“Yes, of course,” Paul forced out. “Have a nice day.”

John’s answer came a second too late. 

“You too. And, just. Take care of yourself, yeah?”

Paul winced at that, his fingers coming to push on his closed eyelids. He was tense all over and really hoped his voice didn’t show it too much.

“Always. You do, too. Bye.”

“Bye.”

He heard John hanging up, but stayed frozen in place with the phone against in his hand, lowering the back of it in front of his mouth. His stomach was aching so much it felt like a burn. He thought for a second that throwing up might appease him, but realized he wouldn’t be capable to do it. He didn’t feel capable of doing anything, at the moment. Yoko’s face kept dancing in front of his eyes. How close they had been – close being a gross understatement here. John was going to meet her again, fall in love with her again, and Paul had basically just given him his blessing.

Sometimes, it blew his mind how stupid he could be.


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!  
I'm extremely nervous about this chapter. I prefer to warn you a little: Paul is not a in great headspace for a good part of it. It's probably one of the most angsty/depressing chapters of all (ok you're right, not the most), but it's a necessary part of his journey, so I hope you won't hate me for it. Or that you won't feel like it's pointless or unjustified. Or maybe you can hate me, but just, not too much please...?  
Hope you still enjoy!
> 
> And to answer to @Maz (and maybe some of you wonder about it too), in the plan I have for the rest of the story (which I have shuffled quite a bit lately), there are roughly between 13 and 18 chapters left. I think. Maybe.  
I don't know, maybe I'll never stop. I'm too attached to them now!

Paul was not prone to paranoia. When he faced a problem, or when someone put him in a complicated situation, he analysed the facts, made sure not to let emotion overwhelm him, and tried to make the best decision he could possibly make with all the knowledge that was at his disposition. For all intents and purposes, he was a rational man. 

And yet, ever since the moment John had mentioned Yoko’s name, all rationality had flown out the window.

Since he had arrived in the past, things were basically happening the same way they had in his past – the few changes that had occurred were more or less directly results of Paul’s arrival. Even Grace’s birth, he had realized after some thought, had been an indirect consequence of it. Nine months prior, they had been in the middle of December, right when Paul had arrived. And if the first time around they had all celebrated together the end of their UK tour, this time around they had separated a day earlier because of Paul fleeing to his Dad’s. So George had gone back to Pattie a day earlier. Small change, but still. Everything else that was different could be explained the same way: John coming back early from his trip and deciding to divorce, them not meeting up with Neil and Brian in Paris, Paul being present in Spain this time… It all checked out. Things Paul was not interfering with did not occur differently than the way they had the first time around. It was almost reassuring, in a way. But somehow, he had not realized that it meant John was bound to meet Yoko again, too.

What confused him, also, was that it didn’t seem to be happening the same way it had back then. He remembered how the first time, Yoko had reached out to him, first. A matter of manuscripts that Paul had eventually refused to give her. He was the one who had guided her towards John in the first place – a fact that had kept him wide awake for numerous sleepless nights in the following years. But this time, he had not been contacted at all. How on Earth had John even been invited to her exhibition? What had she done? It was not that Paul hated the woman; he did not particularly appreciate her, and at times he had clearly resented her, but he respected her. They were on relatively good terms in the 2000s. After all, John had been deeply in love with her; who was he to dispute that? 

He did not know what to do. Days passed and found him working relentlessly on the musical with George Martin. Working, seeing George and Ringo, calling his father and his brother, spending time with his pets: such was his schedule for days on end. He avoided talking about the future with Ringo, just told him he was still trying to disentangle his memories. It was not an outright lie, but he couldn't say he was _actively_ trying to remember. For some reason, it made him very anxious to think about it.

When he had John on the phone, he carefully avoided breaching any subject that would set his anxiety off again. The rational part of his brain tried to convince him that he was worrying over nothing. John was his boyfriend, however odd the notion was. They were good together. There was no logical reason that he would just flip everything over and go with Yoko the minute he met her. But Paul knew also that when John had first met Yoko, he had still been with Cynthia, so that knowledge did not reassure him as much as he would have hoped. He trusted John – as much as one person can trust another with their life. But that trust was very current. He trusted him in their current situation, yes, but he had no idea how he would react faced to Yoko again. And seeing how intense their relationship had been in the past, it felt legitimate to have doubts – or at least, fears. 

As he was one evening playing some modern tunes on the piano, with Thisbe leisurely lying over it, he came to a simple conclusion. He knew he needed to back off. Be the big man, not interfere and just trust John. If he forbade him to go to the exhibition, it would lead to questions and to embarrassing revelations. John would understandably not appreciate Paul’s distrust and they might fight. Or even break up. If he went with him, Paul would simply go insane with paranoia and neither of them would enjoy the night, which would also very probably lead to questions, or even just directly a fight. He had to trust him, trust their relationship, and let things happen. But if John fell in love with her again…

He shook his head, willing the thought away. Worrying about it did not help. If he kept worrying about future things that might happen, he would just drive himself crazy again. He didn’t need to add new fears to his bloodied dreams about John dying; those were terrifying and paralyzing enough. It did not help also that thinking about Yoko had led him to think about Linda. If everything went on the same path again, he would meet her too, in May. Even if he didn’t go to the club where he had first seen her, they would eventually meet at the press launch of the album. Unless… unless of course the album came out earlier, or later, if it was so different that Brian organized a different party, if, if…

One question burned his mind, though: if he met Linda, what would he do?

His anxious and heavy mind could simply not settle on one decision. One minute he thought he would do anything to see her and live with her again, and the next he felt like if he ever had to leave John he would not survive it. What reassured him, somehow, was to tell himself that this was a situation that was still far ahead in the future, and he did not have to have a solution for it right away. The problem might not even arise; maybe he would just never meet her! How easier that would be! …Right? But thinking about it still led him to believe that he had no right to ‘keep’ John from meeting Yoko. She had been the love of his life. They had had a child together, a real life, free and public. If they met again, maybe nothing would happen, and John would still stay with Paul. But maybe he would fall in love with her again, and then, who would Paul be to stop it? Who was he to stand in the way of love, of a happy family life? He had no right to deprive him of it. He had no right to mess with John’s life any more than he already had. So, he had no choice, really. He just had to trust him.

Despite Paul’s predictions, Grace proved to remain a very quiet and calm baby. Paul was taking his duties as godfather very seriously, and it was a good thing that George and he were on such good terms because he loved coming over to just watch the little girl grow one day at a time. Since Pattie was a bit tired of having her mother around (after, she had stayed at home with them for nearly four months), she welcomed Paul’s offered help with opened arms. She had even allowed him to bring Martha along after some negotiations, and it seemed like Grace sort of perked up at the sight of the furry puppy. After all, they were both babies.

Thus, Paul kept himself quite busy. In his spare time, he had bought recording material and had started recording all the songs he loved from his later years. He couldn’t do all of them, of course (mostly because of the lack of material), but it appeased him to know that they slowly came to exist again. He even recorded some future songs that were not from him – just because he missed hearing them. He made sure to record songs he had sometimes wished John could have heard, too. It wouldn’t hurt. He spent so much time in John’s room/the music room that some days he had to literally drag himself outside to buy some food. Most of the time though, Thisbe or Martha reminded him of what time it was by loudly declaring how hungry they were.

On the day John was supposed to come back from Spain, anxiety and paranoia had reached an almost comical level in Paul’s mind. He could not stop thinking about John and Yoko and kept seeing them together in his head, the images stuck on a loop. He kept picturing Sean too, how happy and loving John had been with him. His stomach was all in knots, and he had barely been able to eat in the last two days. On top of all, he felt ridiculous for reacting this way. He did not own John. Sure, they were dating, but they were not _that_ serious either. Getting in such a state just because John might fall in love with someone else was stupid. He was so not used to such a violent form of jealousy that he had trouble recognizing it for what it was.

Around 10:30 that evening, Paul decided to take his dog out for a well-deserved walk. As more and more people had realized where he lived, it had become less practical to take her out during the day, and he generally preferred early mornings or late evenings. He slipped on his jacket, attached the leash on Martha’s collar and got out on the building corridor. He took his time to properly lock his door, ignoring Martha who was whining and pulling on her leash – she couldn’t wait to go outside and stretch her legs, the poor thing. When she started happily barking though, Paul frowned and turned to shush her, only to freeze mid-movement. 

Martha was not impatient to go outside. She was making a great fuss of John, who was stooping in front of her in the stairs. When he felt Paul’s eyes on him, he looked up with a bright smile.

“Damn, I’m five minutes late,” He joyfully said.

“What are you doing here?!” Paul asked, gaping at him.

“Thought I’d pop in for a hello,” John answered.

Paul’s mind was filled with bubbles, but he was so stunned that he just stared at him, not quite believing his eyes. Which made John’s smile falter a little.

“Would you let me in, just a sec? I won’t stay long don’t worry, the cab’s literally waiting outside.”

That brought Paul out of his daze and he nodded hurriedly, sending a quick glance to the door of his neighbours just next to them.

“Yeah, yeah sure, come in.”

He reopened his door with fumbling hands, feeling John’s heat behind him as he climbed the last steps, Martha still half-jumping on him. Paul entered the flat again, John and Martha on his tail, and closed the door soundly after them. He then turned to John, who was looking at him with a small, excited smile that he was trying to tame. Paul took him in – the slight tan on his face and his hands, the unruly hair, the round glasses – and chuckled before stepping closer to him and embracing him in a strong hug. John hugged him back immediately, burying his nose into Paul’s neck, and Paul was shivering all over. How could he be so freaking _happy_ to see him? What kind of sorcery was that?! Paul leant back, his cheeks starting to hurt from how much he was smiling.

“Hi,” He said quietly.

“Hi,” John replied on the same tone.

Overwhelmed by a wave of affection, Paul suddenly raised his hands to trap John’s head between them and noisily peppered his face with tiny kisses, feeling giddy like a schoolboy. John laughed, trying to escape.

“Someone is happy to see me,” He chuckled, the glint in his eyes warming Paul’s whole body.

“Vaguely, yes,” Paul retorted with a cheeky smile, not resisting dropping a quick kiss on John’s lips.

The expression on John’s face got thoughtful for a moment and Paul frowned, feeling all of a sudden terribly insecure. His stomach got all tense in a second.

“Sorry, I’ll stop—” He started.

“No! No no, don’t stop, I’m sorry,” John cut him off, stepping closer to him again.

He tenderly kissed the corner of Paul’s mouth and smiled again, softer.

“I just can’t believe it, that’s all,” He elaborated. “It’s so strange to see you being like that. With me, I mean.”

Paul’s muscles relaxed and he realized he knew exactly what John meant.

“I’m still not really used to it either,” He admitted, feeling sort of relieved to do so. Then, chuckling awkwardly, he added: “I always half expect you to drag me or tell me you were just having a go at me or something.”

John frowned and shook his head, his fingers coming up to briefly caress Paul’s cheekbone. 

“I won’t,” He assured him. “But yeah, it’s weird.”

“So weird.”

“The weirdest.”

“The weirdeth-est.”

“Okay get off your high horse now, McCartney.” 

Paul just laughed and John watched him with a grin that was taking his whole face. He reached out to briefly touch Paul’s fingers with his. His movement was jerky, unsure.

“Anyway, I wanted to ask you. Can you come to mine tomorrow, before my art thing?” He started again.

Paul felt his laughter die in his throat, replaced by a bitter taste. For a short while, he had forgotten John lived with Cynthia again. And worse, that he was about to meet Yoko again. Paul leaned slightly further back without even realizing it.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea…” He replied slowly, feeling his own face pulling into a grimace he couldn’t control.

“I’ll make Cyn go away, don’t worry. Just you and me. And Jules, probably. I’ve missed the little lad.”

But that answer did not reassure Paul in the slightest. He frowned.

“It’s her home. You can’t just—shoo her away as you want,” He replied, a bit reprimanding.

“Who says I can’t?” John retorted with a cheeky grin.

Paul raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms, unimpressed.

“Your conscience?” 

“I have one?”

Paul snorted and looked away. He didn’t like this – having to tell _these things_ to John. To point out the obvious: that John was living with someone else. That he had obligations that were bigger than Paul. That he was not Paul’s, and would never be. At least not in the eyes of everybody else. Not in a long, long while. That for the world, they were nothing, and pretending they were could only bring them disappointment and annoyance in the long run. Nothing.

Irritation suddenly filled Paul, and he didn’t even know what it was for exactly.

“I can’t, anyway. I told George I was going to go see them and the baby,” He said finally.

John pursed his lips, seeming a little taken aback.

“Oh. Okay,” He said in a voice he was clearly trying to keep neutral. “Of course. But I can… I can still come to yours after the exhibition, right?”

“Sure,” Paul nodded with a tight smile. “You still have the key, right?”

John searched in his pocket and pulled out a little silver key, to which was attached the ridiculous fluffy key ring they had bought that one time they had driven to Liverpool together.

“You kept it,” Paul observed with a chuckle, pointing at the key ring.

“Yeah, of course,” John replied with the briefest of frowns.

They observed each other in silence for a moment.

“Okay,” John said again after a while, sounding prudent. “I should go. The cab’s waiting.”

Paul nodded, biting on his lower lip and looking down. He felt ashamed, vulnerable, and he couldn’t even identify why. He was even surprised when John planted a soft kiss on his lips.

“I missed you,” He whispered against his mouth, so quiet Paul nearly missed it.

He retreated to the door the second after, and when Paul looked up, feeling strangely choked up, John was already opening the door. They exchanged a last quick look, John’s eyes burning into him, and then, he was gone.

The day after, Paul was in a terrible mood. 

From the moment he had woken up, he had just known the day would suck. He had barely slept (with horrible nightmares, even more horrific than usual) and thus had a violent headache, and when he had finally managed to get out of bed, it had been only to see Thisbe had decided to start scratching the legs of the table. Not the best start.

He could not stop thinking about John, and jealousy was silently expanding in him. He could fully understand now why it was considered a sin: it was poisoning his mind. After two more hours spent at the kitchen table wondering how bad it would be if he served himself a little scotch to find courage, he finally braced himself, got dressed, fed the pets and left the flat with Martha. As far as distractions went, spending the day with George and his kid was a good one. He even saw George’s parents, and it was easier to pretend everything was alright with people he was less close to. In times of crisis like this one, his charming self came out even stronger. Telling stories and getting people to talk about themselves was a good way of keeping one’s own mind focused on something else than itself. 

But as the hours inched closer to the time of John’s exhibition, Paul’s nerves frayed more and more. When he finally left George’s house, he was both relieved and reluctant to find himself alone again. On the drive home, he evaluated his options and decided playing some music to pass the whole evening was probably the best – he knew just how lost he could get in it. So when he arrived home, he checked on Thisbe and went straight to John’s room. The music. Room. He settled in front of the piano and started playing the beginning of ‘Hallelujah’, the sad melody quite fitting to his morose state of mind. But he had not even reached the half of the song that he was forced to stop; he rubbed his hands over his face, tried to shake the anxiety out of him. He could not stop thinking about it. He was obsessed by it. He looked at the empty glass of water he had left on the piano from the day before and considered it quietly. Maybe… It wouldn’t hurt, would it? Making a split decision, he got up and briskly walked to the living-room, kneeling in front of the cabinet. He knew he could hold his liquor, and if at least he was a bit intoxicated, he wouldn’t obsess that much over stupid things. He knew it wasn’t the wisest action, but sometimes desperate times called for desperate measures. 

After three glasses of neat whisky, though, he realized he was nowhere near better. Lying on the couch, he had not found the strength to go back to the piano, feeling like nothing good would come out of him at the moment anyway. On the contrary, the ticking needles of his watch were taunting him, relentless. 7pm; John was probably about to leave his house, now. Ready to… ready to meet _her_… 

A violent wave of nausea rolled in his stomach and suddenly everything seemed very clear to him. What the hell was he doing? Why was he letting this happen?! 

In a flash of panic, Paul jumped to the phone and composed John’s number, praying it was not too late. The kept ringing for a while, and Paul was cursing himself under his breath. Finally, a sound resonated on the other end of the line, sign that someone was picking up.

“John?!” He exclaimed breathlessly, not caring how panicked he sounded.

“…Uh, no. It’s Cynthia.”

Paul pushed the phone away from his mouth, letting out a deep shaky breath. He took a second to calm himself, and tried to have a more normal voice.

“Hi. It’s Paul,” He said, feeling extremely stupid already. “Is, uh… is John here?”

A moment passed, and Paul had the sinking impression that Cynthia was finding him pathetic. Which he was.

“No, sorry. He left twenty minutes ago,” She said calmly.

Paul turned the phone away again and this time bit hard onto his tightly folded fingers. He wanted to scream. How could he have been so stupid?!

“Did something happen…? Are you alright?” Cynthia’s soft voice came faintly through the phone.

His eyes still tightly closed, Paul spoke into the phone again. 

“No, no no I’m okay, don’t worry. I just… I had forgotten to tell him something, but it’s alright. It can wait,” He lied, hoping she wouldn’t find this even weirder than it actually was. 

“Okay. Well, I was about to give Julian his bath, so—”

She sounded so apologetic Paul instantly felt a thousand times worse for having sort of stolen her husband, and for now worrying someone else might steal him from him.

“Yes of course, I’ll leave you alone. Give a kiss to Julian from me, yeah? Thank you, Cyn. Have a nice night!” He promptly answered on a cheery tone that required all the little of strength he had left.

She said goodbye back and a blur of seconds later, Paul was alone again in his living-room, phone in hand and nausea threatening to overwhelm him. He had ruined everything, again. He had absolutely no guarantee that John would even come home. He should have found an excuse – any excuse. Just, kept John from going. Now he was on his way, perhaps arrived already. Perhaps he was talking to Yoko this very minute. Perhaps his eyes were getting all shiny, like the day Paul had surprised him with pancakes months before. Perhaps he was giving her his precious small, shy smile. Perhaps he was slightly leaning into her with fingers brushing her arm, just like he had done to Paul during the NME party. Perhaps…

A sudden urge to throw up came to Paul and he had to pathetically rush to the bathroom. He closed abruptly the door behind him, and he could hear Martha whining on the other side – he didn’t want to risk puking on her. He heaved a few times, kneeling in front of the toilet, but nothing came and he finally sat against the cold wall, hoping it would ease his burning body a little. He could sadly anticipate the terrible headache he would have the next day. Once he started feeling a bit more grounded, he got out of the bathroom (to the great relief of his faithful dog) and went to get himself a glass of water. Getting himself into such a state was pointless. He was acting like a jealous lovesick teenager, when he was supposed to have the wisdom and experience of an old man. 

Suddenly parched, he felt like the water streaming down his throat was god-sent. His mind clearing up the tiniest bit, he went back to the living-room and retrieved his position on the couch, grasping a blanket on the way and turning on the TV. Thisbe immediately jumped back on him, and Martha was quietly lying in her basket at the foot of the couch. Maybe John would come home a bit later, maybe he wouldn’t; he just had to wait and see. No more useless worrying. No more thinking about Yoko. It was easier said than done, of course, but after about an hour of watching some black and white film he did not recognize at all, he felt his eyelids get heavier. Sleep was greatly welcomed, and he did not fight it at all.

He was sleeping soundly, snuggling into the blanket, when something slowly brought him out of his slumber. He tried to open his eyes, but they were all trapped in cotton, refusing to meet the dim light now invading the room. It took him some time to realize that there was a hand in his hair.

Forcing himself, he finally opened his eyes fully and was met with the most beautiful sight possible: a soft, smiling face with rounded glasses and kind eyes.

“You’re here,” He croaked.

The smile grew bigger.

“Of course. Told you I would be, didn’t I,” John answered softly, a joyful lilt to his voice.

Paul stretched as much as he could with Thisbe still sleeping on his belly.

“How was your night out?” John started again.

Confusion took hold of Paul again and he froze, turning a frown to him.

“My what?”

“You said you had plans.”

“Oh. No… I stayed here,” He answered, feeling pathetic again.

Becoming more and more awake, he turned on his side (waking Thisbe up in the process) and slipped his hands under his cheek. John was squatting in front of him, in a position very similar to the one he had adopted that last night in Spain. He looked tired, and a bit high. The red in his eyes told Paul he was probably a bit drunk too. But he was _here_ and Paul suddenly wanted to cry. 

“How much have you drunk?” John asked, looking at the half-empty bottle of whisky and the glass on the floor next to his legs.

But Paul did not want to talk about that. He felt stupid, and he didn’t want John to look at him.

“Can you just… Can you come over?” He replied in a small voice, opening the blanket and pointing his head at the space left behind him, on the couch.

John sized the space left and let out a tiny chuckle.

“I’m going to crush you. We’d be more comfortable in a bed.”

“No you won’t. You’re light as a feather.”

John snorted at that. He hesitated, assessing Paul’s face, and whatever he found there decided him. He got up and, ever so gently, climbed over the couch and slowly sank behind Paul. As he was arranging the blanket over both of them, Paul pulled one of his hands out from beneath his head and blindly reached to grab John’s arm, forcing him to spoon him. John went along and snuggled his face against Paul’s shoulder.

“Are you okay?” He whispered after a few minutes of silence.

Paul closed his eyes and brought up John’s hand to kiss it gently.

“Just drank too much,” He settled on answering. 

John hugged him tighter. Paul tried not to ask, but the question was burning his lips.

“How was the exhibition?” 

“Interesting,” John conceded with a little giggle. “Wouldn’t have it in my house, though.”

Paul, who had kept John’s hand close to his mouth, was now worryingly caressing it with his other hand. He pushed John’s hand a little further from his mouth when he realized his lips were trembling.

“Did you meet the artist?”

“Yeah,” John answered, casually. “Weird character. She had written letters to me, you know. I never read them though, but Cyn recognized her name. John – Dunbar, you know – he had told me she was good, and I have to say she is.”

Paul’s body was so tense he had to consciously breathe on a regular pattern. This was hurting him. He knew he had to stop, but he also knew he was totally incapable of stopping.

“Did you like her?” He asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.

The question seemed to unsettle John for a moment, if the twitch of his fingers was anything to go by. Paul forced himself not to move.

“Well, maybe I wouldn’t drink beers with her every night, but she was alright. She looked like a fairy-tale character. In a strange, sort of good-looking way.”

Silent tears filled Paul’s eyes, and once again he wanted to scream at himself for being so stupid.

“I’m knackered, though. After an hour I was just bored, I wanted to come home,” John went on, burying his face into Paul’s neck again and dropping a tiny kiss there.

Paul didn’t answer. His voice seemed to have abandoned him and all his energy was drained.

“Are you sure you’re alright? You’re shivering,” John murmured – and there was so much care and worry in his voice that Paul felt even more confused.

“Yeah.”

John lifted his head, and Paul could feel his eyes on him but refused to meet them.

“Okay, that’s it,” John stated firmly, trying to rouse Paul. “You need sleep – in a real bed. Get up.”

Paul groaned, his body feeling all heavy and still tense, but John was merciless: he got up and pulled on Paul’s arm until Paul relented to put his feet back on the floor. Once Paul was more or less up, John grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the corridor, straight to Paul’s bedroom, with Martha and Thisbe hot on their tail. John soundly closed the door after them and turned to Paul who was just standing there, feeling drained and useless. John stripped down, keeping only his knickers. Paul watched him and slowly, so slowly, started imitating him with heavy limbs. He carelessly threw his clothes on the side and grabbed his pyjama pants in his drawer, before slipping them on as fast as a lethargic snail. When he turned back around, the main light was turned off and the bedside lamp was the only one left, his clothes were neatly folded on the chair next to the door, Thisbe was rolled in a ball at the end of the bed, John’s glasses were set on the bedside table and John was already tucked in, his tousled head and his arms the only things popping out of the covers.

Paul felt himself smile a little at the sight. He approached the bed, pushed the covers off, climbed into it and let himself fall on his stomach, his head unashamedly lying on John’s chest. He was too tired to second-guess himself, at this point. Relief flooded through him though when he felt John’s fingers raking through his hair again. This position and John’s movements were so nice, so warm and comfortable, that Paul felt like he could fall asleep in seconds.

“Good night, love,” John said somewhere above him, sounding very far away. 

Paul tried to answer, without success; he hadn’t realized he was asleep already.

When Paul woke up, it was without any surprise with a raging headache. His mouth was dry, and felt like it was all coated, and his eyes vehemently protested against the natural light flooding into the room. He stretched, taking up all the width of the bed, and suddenly remembered the night before. 

John. 

…Yoko.

Feeling all of a sudden much more awake, he rose and looked around, checking if he was indeed all alone in the room. The space next to him was already cold. He looked at his watch, which had stayed on his wrist, and saw it was nearly 10am already. Dread was heavy in his stomach as he got up and quickly put on a jumper and some socks. He couldn’t hear any noise coming from the rest of the flat. John had probably left already. Gone to join Yoko to get to ‘know each other better’. Off to a new and better life.

With all the weight of the world on his shoulders, Paul treaded slowly towards the kitchen. What was he going to do, now? Pretend nothing had ever happened? Just, go on with his life and watch John live happily after with another person…? It was only fate, after all. In a way, John was supposed to end up with Yoko. Paul had just been an error on the way. A small part of his journey.

Martha came into his legs to say ‘hi’ just as he was entering the kitchen and he bent forward to pet her.

“So, do you feel better?”

Paul stood up abruptly, too fast for his blood pressure. His vision pixelated for a few seconds and when it got back to normal, he could see him. John, sitting at the table with a cup of tea in his hands and two plates of toast and beans in front of him. He was looking up at Paul with an amused smile. All dishevelled and beautiful.

Relief crashed hard into Paul and he couldn’t stop himself from going straight to John to hug him from behind. John laughed at that but Paul ignored him, burying his nose into his hair and smelling him deeply.

“Calm down, it’s just beans. Nothing to write home about,” John chuckled.

“Thank you,” Paul murmured in his hair. 

John patted his arm and that prompted Paul to finally let go of him. Anxiety was still very much present in him, but at least John had not left him _right away_. He went to sit at the table too, pulling to him the empty plate, the cup and the fork John had gotten out for him. The thought warmed him a little.

“Tea?” John asked, taking Paul’s cup and getting up to go to the stove.

“Yes, please.”

Paul watched him as he poured tea into his cup. He looked… _normal_. Paul tried to remember the signs of a John in love, but beyond the obsession, he could not really find any that was significant enough. John looked happy, well-rested. His body was relaxed – and he had cooked, which was rare enough to be noted. Was it suspicious, though…? Maybe he did look in love, but he also did not look that different from what he usually looked like. Paul had no idea what to conclude. His brain felt like cotton and he decided that the best way to make it clear in his mind was simply to probe a little more. He cleared his throat, choosing to focus his gaze on his beans.

“Did you talk to a lot of people, at the party?” He asked, aiming for casual.

“Not that many,” John answered distractedly.

Paul tried very hard to tame his jealousy, but he was unable to control the words that tumbled out of his mouth.

“What was it like when you met her? The artist?”

John stilled and turned to Paul, tea pot still in his hands. His expression was very serious.

“Alright, what’s going on? Why is this so important to you? Who is this woman?”

Paul shut his mouth in a flash. Fuck, he was being too pushy. But John _had_ to know she was the one. It was supposed to happen, how could he just not feel anything?

“Paul,” John said in a low tone, a frown growing on his face. “Who is she?”

At that point, Paul felt like there was no need to pretend anymore.

“You must have felt something when you saw her, come on.”

John raised his free arm in a show of despair and confusion.

“What are you even talking about?! No I didn’t feel anything, she’s no one. Stop being so bloody weird about it!”

Paul kept stubbornly quiet. John finally put the tea pot back on the stove, his terse movements proving he was losing his patience, but his darkened eyes showing he was trying to be understanding.

“I don’t care what happened in your past, but _this_, right now? This is not it,” he went on. “This is our present, OK? _Mine_. I don’t care about some crazy gal who sells apples for two fucking hundred quids.”

“She’s the love of your life, John.” Paul finally admitted, his stomach twisting in pain.

John’s frown somehow got even deeper.

“No she’s not.”

“You don’t know her!” Paul exclaimed, exasperated.

“Yeah, exactly, I don’t. But I know _you_.” John answered fiercely. 

A heavy silence settled between them. Paul could hear John’s words but he did not manage to fully integrate them, his mind going on a loop. He hated this so much, feeling out of control, that he did not know what to do except trying to exorcize it.

“I don’t want to deprive you of what you two could have.”

It was haunting him, the guilty feeling that he was ruining John’s future. That because of him, John wouldn’t have the intense love he had shared with Yoko. And worse, that he would never have Sean. That he was just a barrier stopping him from having what he deserved to have. 

John went around to table to grip Paul’s hand fiercely, his eyes burning holes into Paul’s.

“Stop it,” He said decidedly. “You’re not depriving me of anything. I don’t care about that woman, and even if I did in your past, I’m not the John you’re thinking about here. Just trust me, okay? I know what I want.”

Paul looked down, feeling distant tears prickle his eyes but absolutely not wanting to let them take control of him.

“You have to trust me,” John added, soft, so soft.

“I’m…” Paul started on the same tone, not even realizing he was shaking his head.

Silence deepened between them as his voice trailed off. Then, slowly, John let go of Paul’s hand. It hurt Paul to his core, to see him recoil like that, but he couldn’t stop himself from saying these things that he knew were hurtful, fuelled by fear and irrationality. His anxiety was like an open wound, bleeding out of his mouth.

“I saw you with her. You two were together all the time as if, you know, as if you were… one fucking person. You were so in love with her it was almost painful to watch. You were married, and happy. You can’t… We’re not like that, we’re not, we wouldn’t even be allowed to, and you will miss it at some point, I know you will—”

“Paul, stop,” John repeated firmly, rubbing his hands over his face, his jaw squared. “You don’t know _anything_.”

“But even if it’s not her, it’ll be somebody else! Some woman will come along and you’ll just… she’ll bewitch you, too, and… You will just go with her, and it will all have been pointless…” Paul trailed off, his erratic breathing making it hard to talk. “Fuck. I feel like I’m going insane, I hate it.”

John approached him again, squatting next to Paul’s chair. His hand gently grabbed Paul’s shaking arm. 

“Paul, love. Listen to me. I don’t care about that woman. I’m with you, and I am not leaving you for anyone.”

Ironically, a sense of déjà-vu came over Paul as he realized he had said nearly the exact same words to John only a few weeks earlier. He couldn’t help but snort, still focused on his beans.

“You don’t know that.”

John didn’t answer right away, and Paul could feel his thoughtful gaze on him. 

“You have to trust me,” John repeated again after a while, sounding small.

Paul looked up and met his sad eyes. He wanted to tell him he did, to reassure him – because he did, trust him, with his life! – but words were stuck in his dry throat, fear gripping his guts. He tried to push them out, and managed to open his mouth but John suddenly got up and left the kitchen, leaving a flabbergasted Paul behind him.

Paul stayed frozen in place, and after a moment he heard the shower water running in the bathroom. Somehow, he felt even worse than he had when he had woken up. It was positive though, wasn’t it? John had not chosen Yoko over him. And that was good, right? He forced himself to eat some beans and toast, and to drink the tea John had prepared for him. He just needed to apologize for being such an insecure git. It annoyed him to no end, to be like _that_. He was not like that, usually. He had never felt so unsure about himself in a relationship. But then again, he had never been in such a fragile situation. He was used to easy relationships, to just fall in love and live freely afterwards. With John, it was complicated for so many reasons... Paul knew it was just a matter of time, efforts and adaptation, but it was still hard. He had sort of lost the flexibility of mind that allowed him to adapt to changes as easily as he did when he was young.

Once his breakfast was finished, he washed their cutlery and loitered anxiously in the hallway, waiting for John to come out of the bathroom. When he heard the specific ‘click’ of the door lock, he turned around vividly and saw John walk out, wearing Paul’s clothes. John looked briefly at him, expressionless, before going to the living-room. Paul watched him go and followed him silently, feeling sheepish. John was fishing a fresh pair of socks out of his satchel bag. Paul stood awkwardly next to the TV.

“Are you mad at me…?” He asked, trying not to sound as small as he felt.

John looked briefly at him. He did not answer right away, which did not help Paul’s nerves.

“No,” He finally answered, with a little sigh. “No, I’m not mad.”

“I’m sorry,” Paul let out quietly. “I do trust you.”

His socks in place, John got up and observed Paul’s face for a moment with a squint. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, so Paul guessed he wasn’t able to see anything anyway.

“I trust you,” Paul repeated, feeling like it was very important that John believed him.

John kept staring at him with a very slight frown, but he looked sad. Unsure. Ever so slowly, Paul approached him and raised two fingers to gently caress his arm and grab his elbow. John looked at Paul’s hand and took a deep breath.

“We need to… You need to speak, Paul. You can’t just stay quiet and put me to the test whenever things don’t turn out the way you wanted, or whatever. I never know what you’re thinking. It’s a bloody nightmare sometimes. You never say anything, you just… You may think you’re very transparent but you’re not. Not at all. I always expect you to change your mind from one moment to the next.”

Paul nodded, trying not to feel offended. He was probably right. To some extent. 

“I don’t care about what happened when I met that woman in your past,” John started again, visibly straining not to let anger take over. “Nothing happened, this time. It was just an exhibition, I talked with her, and that’s it. I’ll never see her again. If you don’t trust me not to leave you at any single occasion, I don’t know what to tell you. You’re right, we’re not fucking married. We’re nothing. I know that.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Paul retorted firmly.

“It’s true, though. Officially we are nothing. We have to hide, and lie... It fucking sucks and I hate it. It’s not fair for you to fly back in time to just end up in the fucking closet with me. It’s bringing you nothing but pain. You deserve more than this. And yet I’m too much of a selfish coward to let you go.”

Paul grabbed John more firmly, forcing him to meet his eyes. 

“Stop saying that,” He told him, sure of himself. “I don’t care about any of that. I mean, I guess I do care, but... I don’t want you to let me go, that’s nonsense. Haven’t you just seen how much of a fool of myself I’ve made just because I thought you were going to leave me?”

John just looked at him intensely, searching his face.

“I’m sorry I panicked about Yoko. I just… I was scared. It’s stupid,” Paul amended.

“I won’t cheat on you. I know I have the worst history with that, but I won’t,” John stated, and Paul could hear how much he meant it. 

“I believe yo—”

“No you don’t,” John cut him off, quiet. 

The worst was… he was right. No matter how hard he tried, Paul didn’t really believe him. He couldn’t help but imagine John going to women, to something less complicated. Despite John’s reassurances, he kept picturing him with Yoko – and knowing her, she would probably not let him go that easily if she was interested. So Paul just looked at John in silence, and leant forward to kiss him gently on the lips. He was reassured to feel John kissing back after a couple of seconds. Tentative, but warm. Paul caressed his cheekbone with the pad of his fingers and leant back to look at him again.

“Can you stay, today?” He asked softly.

“You want me to?” John replied, glancing at Paul’s lips.

“Yes. I can show you the songs I recorded.”

John raised an eyebrow, an interested glint appearing in his eyes.

“You recorded songs?”

Paul shrugged, snaking his arms around John’s waist. Thankfully, John lifted his arms to let him do it and merely put his hands on Paul’s biceps.

“Some of my solo career. And others from other people that I thought you might like,” Paul explained.

A disbelieving smile appeared on John’s face, a sight for sore eyes.

“You recorded them for me…?” He inquired as if he expected Paul to deny it.

“Yes, just for you. And because they might never exist anymore, which would be a shame.”

John’s grin grew bigger, and he kissed Paul with more fervour, trapping Paul’s neck in-between his hands. He bit gently on Paul’s lower lip and Paul moaned, all his tension suddenly evaporating. It had been too long. He opened his mouth to deepen the kiss, and it was nice to know that they were safe here, in his flat: there was not the risk of being walked in on, or of being heard. They were not pressed by time or by anything else. John leant back for a second, licking his own lips.

“You know what? We never christened your bed,” He said with a tiny, hesitant grin.

Paul pretended to think about it.

“Huh. No, we didn’t. Interesting, that.”

John’s grin widened again and it was such a wonderful sight that Paul did not hesitate any longer. He kissed him again, grabbed his hand, and led him to the bedroom. It was a brittle peace, but it was better than nothing.


	43. Chapter 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU again and again and again :D  
Little TW for a period-typical racist slur around the middle of the chapter!  
And i hope you all are not thinking this story is getting lame since there are lots of time travel stories popping up now ^^ (°o°)

No matter how hard Paul was trying to behave normally and just smother his fears, he couldn’t help but be awkward around John. He could not pinpoint what it was exactly. The sex was great, they were even getting a bit more comfortable together, and they had had a good time listening to the songs. Paul had even heard John hum ‘Karma Police’ as they were eating pasta together, and it had made him feel all kinds of weird. They were alright, but the silence permeating between them in the little blank moments was thick, heavy. There was something off between them, a discomfort that Paul disliked and yet felt unable to dissipate. So Paul tried to tame his frustration by talking. He talked about the bands he liked the most in the future, about his dad’s latest trip to Cornwall and somehow ended up explaining what AIDS was – a promise John didn’t forget to remind him. For the most part, John listened attentively. He looked sincerely interested, but his lack of intervention did not help the uneasiness Paul felt about their whole day.

They left each other on a bittersweet note and an awkward hug, and Paul was angry at himself for even bringing up Yoko in the first place. He had left his paranoia get the better of him and now John seemed a bit vexed, which Paul could not really blame him for. It was misplaced of him to be jealous: present John was obviously not in the same state of mind past John had been when he’d started dating Yoko. John seemed genuine when he said he didn’t care about her. He was vexed now, and it was legitimate. He probably just needed a few days to digest it and things would be back to normal between them – whatever normal meant these days. 

As he was getting Martha’s leash to take her out on a walk, Paul realized he didn’t know what their everyday life would look like from then on. He guessed it was normal that they still wouldn’t know how to deal with this thing between them; all things considered, they hadn’t been together for long, and most of that time had been spent apart. They had not agreed on when they would see each other next. What could Paul expect? A couple of times a week? More might look suspicious. He tried to remember how often they used to see each other in his past but his memories were a bit hazy. He remembered that around 1967 they used to be together all the time and no one ever questioned anything (at least, as much as he was aware of). John had Julian though, and Paul would do anything he could to push him to spend more time with the child. Julian deserved more attention than he’d received in Paul’s past; and Cynthia, too. No matter what happened between Paul and John, the three of them were a family, they ought to have some time together to bond, even just for Julian’s sake. Children were way too precious. Paul knew John loved his son, but had never been able to nurture and show this love properly. And Yoko surely had not helped to reverse that trend. But perhaps… perhaps Paul could help him with that. In a way, he had broken up their family already. Or at least, he had made their reconciliation an even slimmer possibility. The more he thought about it, the more selfish he realized he was. In his past, when Yoko had come along and John had almost totally turned his back on his family, it had enraged and saddened Paul as much as if it had been his own family. And now… now _he_ was the reason for John to turn away. How dare he get jealous of Yoko when he had the same role she had had in his past? 

Paul got deeper into Regent’s Park, going for the spot he knew was always empty of visitors. He had unleashed Martha and she was happily running behind a squirrel who was still too fast for her. Uneasiness had settled comfortably in Paul’s stomach, poking him at each movement and showing him just how much of a hypocrite he was. He did not want John to go back to Cynthia – he was not that masochistic – but being the reason for Julian’s unhappiness was a lot to handle. Nothing proved that if John wasn’t with Paul he would have gotten back with Cynthia, but who knew? Maybe he would have. Maybe their separation would have been only temporary. John said some connection was lacking in their relationship, but what proved he wouldn’t have changed his mind after some time? After all, he was not a model of emotional stability. Even when he was with Yoko, his strongest relationship, he had gone through rough patches where he had vehemently disavowed his feelings. Who knew what could have happened with Cynthia had Paul not gotten in the way…? 

Feeling even guiltier than before, Paul whistled for Martha to come back from the tree she was barking at and tucked his chin deeper into his scarf. He had never thought he would be a homewrecker one day. Sure, technically, the home had been wrecked without Paul’s intervention, but still. Judged from John’s reaction the day before when he had asked Paul to come around to his place, he had already lost some consideration for his own family. And Paul had dared to be sick with jealousy over Yoko… He went back home slowly, stopping for some groceries on the way, Martha sniffing everything she could reach. He needed to stop acting like a baby, and face the consequences of his actions. He would obviously not break up with John; not only because he absolutely did not want to, but also because the mere idea of it woke a sharp pain in his stomach. But he would stop putting John in a position where he had to choose between Paul and anyone or anything else. Surely, Paul had to be wise enough to know how to recognize his own place and how to fit John into his life – and most of all, how to fit into John’s.

The four next days were excruciatingly void of news from John. Paul knew he had to call him at some point, even just to check if the man was alive, but something kept him from doing it (probably some misplaced pride, but he did not want to think about that). He was busy, anyway; finishing the movie soundtrack with George Martin, and keeping Ringo up to date with whatever he had forgotten along the years about 1966 (and it turned out his memory was a lot more vague than Paul’s, his massive use of weed being probably the culprit of the whole affair). He got a phone call from Brian though, who told him the party he was supposed to hold at his house for The Four Tops on the 20th was put off two days before, on the Friday, because of some sombre catering issue. Paul was excited about that party, mostly because it was a new one to him (he didn’t remember attending it in his past), but also because he knew John was _a priori_ going as well, which reassured Paul that he would at least see him once before the recordings started again. 

On the Sunday night, Paul was just about to break and phone when John beat him to it, just as Paul was going to bed. The call was stilted and awkward, and had to have lasted overall two minutes tops, but it was still better than nothing. Paul agreed to come to John’s the next Tuesday: John was alone with Julian, and apparently it was Cynthia’s decision to leave for the day to visit some friend, and she had agreed to leave Julian with his father. As long as John had not pushed her out, it was alright with Paul. 

Thus, Paul spent the Monday all jittery with nerves and excitation. He saw Tara and some other old friends, even went to a quite interesting exhibition, but the whole time he could not stop thinking about John. What he was doing, how he was, what they would do the next day. How John would behave; if he would still be a bit off because of the whole Yoko story or if things would be alright between them. The suspense was killing him. 

When he finally arrived at the house in Kenwood, a little after lunch, Paul killed the engine and waited for a while in his car, feeling exaggeratedly nervous. Martha was jumping excitedly on the backseat, having recognized the house already. Paul allowed himself a couple more minutes of pointless panic before taking a deep breath and getting out of the car. He walked up to the house, and realized with a start when he looked up that John was sitting cross-legged on the wall in front of his entrance, looking at him with an expressionless face. Paul froze, feeling like a deer in headlights. Had John seen him bracing himself in the car…? As Martha was running up to John, Paul glanced back and noticed the car was close enough for John to have seen him. Unease floated back into him and he had to force himself to walk up to John. As he was getting closer though, he watched John’s face and a warm calm settled over him. What was he afraid of? It was only _John_. 

He stopped in front of him, on the one before last step of the staircase, and just watched him. John silently looked back at him, his eyes behind his glasses intently searching his face. After a while, Paul just smiled, feeling some embarrassed laughter threatening to bubble out of him.

“Have you been waiting here all morning?” He asked John, amused. “Alone in the cold?”

The tiniest of grins appeared on John’s face, breaking his carefully neutral expression. He involuntarily rose an eyebrow and pursed his lips, all in the matter of a second. Paul relished in the fact that he was able to notice these things. All the while, Martha was running around everywhere in the garden. 

“It was too hot inside,” John replied with a mischievous glint in his eyes. 

“Oh yes, I had forgotten that temperature was a fatality in your house,” Paul teased.

“And you didn’t say at what time you would arrive,” John completed, clearly fighting not to smile. 

“Well, I’m here now.”

“I see that.”

Paul stood in his place, watching John with a smile, and the time it took him to wonder whether he should just kiss him or not was enough to make him feel weird and awkward. He pursed his lips and looked down for a second, feeling too hot, and John seemed to be more or less in the same state since he suddenly clapped on his knees and got up on his wall. 

“Well, now it’s too cold here,” He announced loudly, avoiding Paul’s eyes.

He jumped from the wall and went straight inside, not waiting for Paul. So Paul whistled for Martha and just followed him inside, coaching himself to just be cool, not to overthink it. He did not have to behave any differently; after all, they were still friends before everything. He just had to follow his desires. He didn’t _have to_ be romantic when he didn’t specifically needed to be, did he? John himself was not being really different with him, so far. Well, except for the sex, of course. And except for their last day in Spain. He was not as affectionate as he had been with Yoko, for example. The second her name popped back into Paul’s mind, he regretted it. Why was he still obsessing over it? Comparing everything they had with what John had with Yoko surely couldn’t be healthy. And yet…

“Paul? Are you even listening to me?”

Paul blinked back to reality and turned a stunned face to John, who was looking at him, a hand on the door leading to the dinner room. Paul was standing all sheepish in the middle of his living-room. Martha was off somewhere in the house already, probably trying to find the cats.

“Yes, what? Sorry,” Paul quickly answered. 

Thankfully, John chuckled at his absent-mindedness.

“Do you want something to drink?” He repeated.

“Uh… Yeah, some tea would be nice. Cheers,” Paul said, finally taking off his coat and scarf.

John nodded and got into the kitchen. Paul looked around the room and spotted some of Julian’s toys in a corner. He quickly calculated in his head and figured Julian had to be back from school already.

“Where’s Julian?” He asked, loud enough for John to hear from the other room.

John’s answer came after a few seconds.

“Napping.”

Paul nodded to himself and just went to sit on the leather couch, not quite knowing what to do with himself. After a while John came back with two teacups, shoes off. He gave Paul his cup and sat next to him, staring at him without any shame. Paul took a careful sip of his tea, purposefully ignoring John’s insisting gaze. Something was still a bit off between them, and he did not know how to act. 

“I started something in Spain,” John suddenly said, setting his own cup down on the glass table.

He got up again to get the guitar lying on the other couch and sat to play. A couple of notes rose, and Paul recognized it right away, his heart growing in his chest. It was a very fledgling version of ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’, but it sounded even better than in Paul’s memory. He smiled, feeling a bit emotional. After a moment, John looked up at him and froze for a second, his hand stilling on the guitar.

“Oh. You know it already,” He said on a strange tone.

Paul tried not to frown at his guarded expression. 

“Yes,” He confessed. Then, feeling embarrassed without knowing why, he added: “Sorry.”

“Don’t,” John simply said, going back to his guitar. 

He started playing again, and Paul felt truly stupid now, just sitting there with his cup of tea. As if John had heard him think, he spoke up again:

“There’s a left-handed one in my bedroom if you want.”

Paul didn’t waste a second to get up.

“Be right back,” He said. 

He swiftly got out of the room and went upstairs. At first he had the reflex to go to John and Cynthia’s room, before realizing he was probably not sleeping there anymore. He randomly opened one of the guest rooms, finding nothing, before getting into one where a guitar was indeed waiting on its tripod. He picked it up and went back to the corridor.

“Dad?” A soft voice asked from another bedroom. 

Paul smiled to himself and followed the voice. He opened the door slowly and was faced with Julian, standing up in front of his bed in his pyjamas with a teddy bear in his hand and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He looked up to Paul and smiled. 

“Hi,” He welcomed him, as simple as that.

“Hey Jules,” Paul answered, squatting down in front of him. “How are you little lad?”

“Tired,” Julian said, bringing his teddy close to his mouth.

“Want to go see your dad with me?” Paul said, setting the guitar down on the floor.

Julian nodded and opened his arms, ready for Paul to just pick him up. Paul chuckled and dutifully obeyed. He had missed this: spending time with children. It rubbed on the dormant pain of his own missing children, but it also soothed him, somehow. Julian safely tucked in his arms, he proceeded to go back down, whispering ‘Hey Jude’ to him on the way. After all, it was his song.

He arrived in the living-room and John looked up, surprise fleeting on his face when he saw them. He opened his mouth to speak then abruptly stopped himself when he realized Paul was singing softly. Paul set Julian back down, and Martha suddenly came running back in the living-room too, bumping into Julian and making him fall flat on his bottom in the process. Paul chuckled at the sight, and Julian did not have the time to cry because he was already assaulted by the happy puppy trying to lick his arms, the teddy bear flying to the ground.

“What was that song you were singing just now?” John asked, barely even looking at his kid playing with the dog.

Paul turned to him, his smile faltering the tiniest bit.

“Oh, that’s… I had made that one for Julian. Back then,” He explained vaguely.

John merely looked at him, and Paul could tell he had understood the context of the song was not exactly a happy one. John hesitated for a second, gnawing on his lips, before setting his guitar aside.

“We can work on it at the next recordings, if you want,” He simply said. 

The urge to say ‘it’s not supposed to be now!’ rushed through Paul but he pushed it away. He needed to be cool. Stop being so controlling. So he just smiled and sat on the floor next to Julian, who was just turning to his father to show him his spread out hand. Martha kept wagging her tail and went to lie quietly next to Paul. He put his hand on her head, petting her distractedly.

“I have slimy all on my hand dad, look!” Julian giggled.

John smiled at that and got up to get closer. 

“Well you’re all disgusting now, aren’t you?” John told his son, taking the tiny hand covered in drool in his and roughly drying it with his sleeve.

Julian giggled again and Paul pursed his lips to hide his smile, not wanting to break the sweet moment. He suddenly felt Martha’s head move under his hand and he glanced at her only to find her staring at the TV. Paul followed her gaze and sure enough, a cat was now on it, looking suspiciously at them. Julian looked at him too and turned to Paul, still leaning into John who had sat cross-legged on the floor as well.

“That’s Pyramus,” Julian explained to Paul. “He’s my faveete.”

An endeared smile broke on Paul’s face.

“He’s your favourite?” He asked gently. “Why?”

Julian hesitated, licked his lower lip before biting on it. He still had one hand on his father’s knee, anchoring him.

“Because… he’s black,” Julian finally answered, an amused glint in his eyes.

“That’s a very good reason,” Paul admitted with an impressed nod. 

“Yes,” Julian said, the assessment definitive. Then, suddenly: “And and and – there is also Salt and Pepper but… they’re scared.”

“Oh? What are they scared of? Are they scared of me?” Paul asked, dramatically putting a hand on his own chest.

Julian laughed and nodded, looking between John and Pyramus, before turning wide eyes to Paul.

“No,” He dragged out with a chuckle.

Paul chuckled too as Julian approached a tiny hand to lightly tap on Martha’s head. Paul understood right away.

“They’re scared of Martha?”

Julian nodded, and Paul glanced at John to see the gentlest expression on his face as he was looking at his son. It warmed Paul all over. He turned back to Julian.

“Martha is very kind, though,” He said. “Can you tell them that Martha is kind?”

Julian nodded excitedly and left the room in a hurry, probably off to wherever the cats’ beds were. They both watched him go.

“You’re good with him,” John said quietly after a while. “Better than me.”

Paul felt his insides clench at that.

“You’re better than you think. You just don’t see it.”

John huffed, not looking convinced in the slightest. Paul reached out to lightly scrape his knuckles on John’s knee, deciding to just leave the tips of his fingers there.

“I mean it,” He insisted. Then, thinking on it: “Aren’t you spending more time with him these days? Since you moved back here?”

John looked down at Paul’s fingers on his knee and simply shrugged. 

“I guess, yeah,” He relented. “Cyn leaves him us alone, sometimes. I don’t know how to be with him, though. I bet you were a thousand times better at it than I am.”

Paul swallowed with difficulty, the pain of his loss heavy in his chest. John looked up at his face in alarm.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” Paul cut him off, not wanting to go down that road at that moment.

Another embarrassed silence settled upon them, soon to be interrupted by Julian padding back into the room, giggling like crazy, with a slim white cat trying to escape from his little arms. Paul had the reflex to take his hand off John’s knee.

“That’s Pepper!” Julian exclaimed proudly just as the cat finally managed to break free and run as fast as lightning out of the room. “Ouch!”

“Did he scratch you?” John asked, not getting up yet. “I told you not to take him up, he doesn’t like it.”

Julian’s eyes started glistening and his lips wobbled, making the answer to the question quite clear. John sighed and got up, walking to Julian who looked a bit cautiously at him, as if he expected to be punished. Paul watched from a distance, stifling his urge to just go and help the crying child. John looked all over the kid’s body, stopping at his collarbone. 

“You’re lucky, it’s nothing, he just scraped your jumper. Don’t cry Jules, it’s nothing,” John told him, patting his arm.

“Maybe you can kiss it better,” Paul piped from his spot.

John raised an eyebrow at him and turned back to his son, who was looking up at him with big sad eyes. After a couple of seconds of staring challenge between father and son, John sighed in defeat and kneeled to blow strawberries on Julian’s collarbone, which caused the child to erupt in giggles again. Paul felt himself smile. John straightened up and Paul was glad to see he was laughing too. He came back to Paul and Julian followed closely, his hand grabbing John’s pants. John sat back down, his back against the couch and his knee coming to rest just against Paul’s, and Julian climbed into his lap to cosily sit too, making himself at home. He took John’s hand and started playing with his fingers, stretching them and comparing them with his own. The difference between that and the careful behaviour he was showing just a moment prior was startling. John glanced at Paul, looking a bit bewildered, but Paul only nodded at him with a smile. John hesitated, then looked at his son and slid his arm across his belly to secure him in his lap.

Paul got up to turn on the TV, and the three of them lazily watched a rebroadcast of some _Doctor Who_ episodes (and how strange was it that it was only the debut of the second doctor!). None of them really cared about what was going on though, and they spent most of the time laughing because John kept putting his hand over Julian’s eyes to hide what he judged was too scary for him – a.k.a., nearly everything. Since Julian’s attention was captivated by the screen and by his father’s antics, Paul enjoyed the opportunity to fit himself snuggly into John’s side, striving not to get too bothered at the contact and at the heat emanating from John’s body. After a moment, Julian extricated himself out of his father’s arms to go to follow Martha out of the room, probably getting bored of just sitting and watching what was just a nonsensical show to him. Paul watched him go but John didn’t react, his eyes still glued to the TV. Paul turned to look at him and felt overwhelmed at how soft John looked. 

Listening to his instincts, Paul turned his body a little towards John and slowly lowered his head on his shoulder, his heart hammering loudly in his ears. He felt John’s body stiffen for a second before relaxing, and John even grabbed Paul’s left hand to lace their fingers together. Paul’s heart was beating so hard at this point it was a miracle it had not burst out of his chest yet. Julian eventually came back, and Paul quickly rose his head but he was surprised when John’s hold on his hand only tightened. Paul tried to meet his gaze, unsure if this was the best reaction, but John ignored him and only smiled at his son who stopped in front of them, his teddy bear back in hand. He went back into his father’s arms, not seeming to care in the slightest about the two adults holding hands. Paul forcefully slowed his breathing down a little. It was alright. Julian did not care.

Once he was settled in his father’s arms though, Julian finally turned to Paul and looked down at their laced fingers. Paul’s breath hitched again, fearing the inevitable question.

“Dad?” Julian finally asked, looking up at his father. 

“Yes sweetheart?” John replied, and Paul could discern a glint of worry in his eyes too.

“Is Paul scared too?”

“What…?” John let out in a surprised breath.

John and Paul stayed both dumbfounded for a moment, before Julian pointed at their joined hands.

“You hold his hand because he’s scared too?” He clarified, as if it was the most logical explanation possible.

After another second of astonishment, John burst out laughing. Paul started chuckling as well, relief dripping through him. When he realized John still hadn’t answered the question, he stepped up.

“Well yes, Jules. It is scary for me too,” He said, looking up at John with amusement.

John smiled at him, trying to contain his laughter, and looked down at Julian again.

“Holding hands is what you do when people you love are scared, Jules, isn’t it?” He said.

Paul’s heart stopped beating for a second. Wha…?!

Suddenly, the front door behind them opened and someone entered the house. Paul let go of John’s hand as if he’d been burned and slid away from him in a flash, his brain short-circuiting and acting only on reflexes. John’s now free hand flew to Julian’s back and he turned a frowning face to the door. As Paul heard the door closing again (he still did not dare to look behind him and kept his gaze fixed on the TV, which was thankfully still on), John gently pushed Julian out of his lap and got up. He looked downright angry. 

“Why are you back already? You said you’d come back only at night,” He spat out in a cold voice.

Paul winced at it and finally turned around. Cynthia was frozen in the hallway, rosy cheeks and bag in hand, and looking a bit stunned. She quickly glanced at Paul and Paul could swear her cheeks got even redder, even though he could not really tell why.

“One of her kids was sick,” She answered simply. “I didn’t want to intrude too much.”

She dropped her bag onto the floor and started to take off her coat before sending a strange look to Paul. 

“Hi Paul. I didn’t know you were coming.”

Paul got up, Martha following suit, and came closer. He sent Cynthia a genuine smile, hoping the deep shame he felt was not visible on his face.

“I just stayed for a bit,” He told her, rubbing his hands together to try and shake off the feeling of John’s skin against his. “I’m going to leave you, it’s getting late already.”

John turned sharply at him. 

“No! Stay, she won’t bother us,” He said, sending a glare at Cynthia which woke up Paul’s dormant uneasiness. 

“No, really, I’m leaving,” He repeated firmly. Then he turned to the living-room, searching Julian’s eyes. “Can I kiss you goodbye, Jules?”

The child nodded and in a few steps Paul was with him, bending down to kiss his cheek.

“You’re so fucking annoying Cyn,” John’s voice rose behind him. “Can’t you just fucking do what you say for once?”

“Well I’m sorry but Kathy’s kid was sick, it’s not like I meant to come back just to annoy you…”

“Yeah, good bloody excuse, as always!”

Paul saw some worried anguish in Julian’s eyes and anger flared in him again. He ruffled Julian’s hair and strode back to the entrance hall, glaring at John. 

“Stop it, John. You’re being rude and unfair,” He told him, not caring if that was crossing a line or not.

John sent him a dark look, visibly angry too, but Paul ignored him and turned to Cynthia, schooling his features into a gentler expression. 

“I’m sorry, Cyn. I’ll see you on Friday, yeah? At Brian’s party?” He told her with a hand on her arm, trying to communicate as much warmth and sympathy as possible.

“Oh, I don’t think I should—” She started, glancing a bit uncomfortably between Paul and John.

“You should definitely come,” Paul insisted, looking straight into her soft eyes. “I’d be happy to see you there.”

“How is this your business anyway?” John let out heatedly.

Paul ignored him, knowing fully well it would annoy the hell out of him, and simply squeezed Cynthia’s arm before turning to Martha.

“Ready, girl?” He told her.

Martha barked briefly at him and Paul turned to Julian, who was peeking at them from behind the wall of the living-room.

“That means she’s ready,” He winked at him. “See you, Julian!”

Julian laughed and waved goodbye at him. 

“Bye Cyn. John,” Paul said, looking briefly at the two of them.

There were a lot of emotions on John’s face but Paul did not take the time to read any of them and just left. He walked briskly to his car, Martha running ahead of him, and realized when he had nearly reached it that he had forgotten his coat and his scarf inside. He considered going back to retrieve them for a fleeting second, then thought better of it. He opened the door to let Martha in then got in himself, shivering deeply once he was in the not very warmer enclosed space. He put on his seatbelt and turned on the engine, driving off as quickly as he could not to let himself the time to look back at the house in regret.

Unsurprisingly, Paul didn’t receive any news until the day of the party. He himself had stubbornly refused to call John, even though the urge to apologize for how abruptly he had left had itched him the whole time. John was being inconsiderate, and mean for no reason. Sure, Paul was frustrated too by the few stolen moments they could get, but it was not fair at all for John to let it all out on Cynthia. And even more in front of their son, who did not deserve any of this. Plus, Paul could not help but feel like this was Yoko’s situation playing all over again, except this time he was the homewrecker, the villain of Cynthia and Julian’s story. He hated this, being the one who kept families apart. And he had not really paid attention to it until Yoko’s name popped up again, as if now that she existed in their world again, all of John’s selfishness was brought up to the surface too, sharpening on the way Paul’s guilt and his frustration towards their situation. He did not even know what was going on in his mind exactly, but he knew it had all exploded the moment he had heard Yoko’s name, and he hated it.

So when he arrived at Brian’s house on the Friday night, saying he was a ball of nerves was an understatement. He craved to be in John’s presence again, but at the same time the mere idea of seeing him made him nauseous. He was welcomed by a smiling Brian, and was led to the rest of the party. There was a lot of people, good music floating around, and it was nice to just plaster on a smile and talk to random people he found along the way. He knew George would not come because of little Gracie, but he knew Ringo and Maureen were supposed to be there, which reassured him a little. He spent the first hour of the party blissfully away from any drama and any tense conversation, until he spotted auburn hair in the crowd. John was back to him, and he was talking animatedly to Ringo and two other men Paul didn’t know. Paul spotted Maureen talking to another woman in a corner but did not see Cynthia anywhere. Even though he was unhappy about it, he could not say that he was really surprised. 

Bracing himself, he went closer to the boys, glass in hand, and met Ringo’s gaze. Ringo smiled at him, looking relieved to see him, and Paul stopped right next to John, who still hadn’t noticed him.

“You can’t say Motown is going down a slippery road, though,” One of the unknown men, who had a moustache, said to John with a chuckle. “Not with all the Top Tens they’ve had just this year.”

“I’m just saying I don’t think big, sparkling labels like that can last forever, that’s it,” John answered, and Paul could tell from his voice alone that he was high. “I don’t care if they have a hundred Top Tens in a year.”

“So this is a business party, then,” Paul piped in with what he knew was a charming tone. “I thought it was meant to be a dancing one.”

John startled and abruptly turned his head to him, staring through his rounded glasses, his lips parted in surprise. Ringo chuckled.

“They’re getting lost in conjectures,” He said, pointing at the three others with his glass. “I’m just listening and drinking champagne.”

“Sounds like a good plan,” Paul told him with a wink, raising his glass to him.

A blonde woman approached them with a smile and went next to Moustache man, who lightly put his hand on her waist. Paul ached at the simple yet loving gesture and could not help a quick glance to John, who was looking at the man’s hand too.

“Sorry, I’m being rude,” Moustache man said. “This is my wife, Anna.”

A chorus of ‘good evenings’ and ‘nice to meet yous’ went around and Paul smiled through his sip, trying to will the ache away. He was angry, and he didn’t even know why exactly.

“My Maureen’s somewhere over there too,” Ringo said, stretching his neck to try and look above the crowd.

Paul’s heart warmed a little at that, happy to notice Ringo’s affection for Maureen had not been totally smothered by his travelling-back-in-time situation. He thought about Cynthia again, and words tumbled out of him before he could think better of it.

“John’s wife should have been here too, but she didn’t come after all, sadly.”

John sent him a glare at that, and Anna, Moustache man and the other lad looked a bit uneasy for a moment. Ringo looked at Paul too, and Paul could feel he was trying to meet his gaze. Feeling suddenly stupid and too hot under the scrutiny, Paul set his glass on the table next to them.

“Well, if you excuse me, I need to hit the loo,” He said to all of them. Then, looking solely at Anna, he added: “I’m sorry, Anna, I know that’s not very gentlemanly of me to say in front of a lovely lady. But I’d rather be honest than sorry!”

That got the expected laugh out of the others, their uneasiness already forgotten. With a last smile, Paul left them and got deeper into the house, avoiding anyone’s eyes. He went straight to the corridor leading to Brian’s basement, knowing nobody would be there, so that he could take a moment to snap himself out of whatever the fuck his mood was right now. As expected, the corridor was empty, and he leant against the cold wall, closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Of course, the quiet did not last long.

“What the fuck are you doing? Pushing me back to Cyn? Flirting with everybody?!”

Paul slowly opened his eyes and met John’s glare. He was standing right in front of him, quite close, and looked downright furious – which Paul could not even blame him for.

“I was not flirting with anyone. And it’s called keeping up the appearances,” Paul slowly answered, trying to remain calm.

“There’s no need to do that! Are you fucking serious?! Is this your twisted way of telling me to fuck off? After all the bloody drama you’ve pulled because of that jap gal?!”

Shame and anger at himself started bubbling in Paul when he realized with horror that despite all the good resolutions he had taken, he might be in the wrong. Forcing John to treat Cynthia better was not a good idea – forcing John to do anything had never been a good idea. When someone told John to turn right, his reaction was nearly always to turn left. And Paul was only now realizing just how different his actions could seem from John’s perspective. Not that he was ready to admit it, though. At least not as long as the wound in his pride was so fresh. He was too ashamed, too frustrated by everything that was going on between them these days. Yoko’s face passed before his eyes again, and John’s anger dribbled on him. John was purposefully trying to arouse him and Paul simply didn’t want to just let it go. _Two can play at this game_, he thought bitterly.

“I thought you said you weren’t mad at me,” He therefore retorted coldly.

As expected, that only seemed to fuel John’s temper. He came even closer and abruptly put a hand on the wall, right next to Paul’s shoulder. His breath was tickling Paul’s face and Paul hated how even in that situation, it was enough to make goosebumps to erupt all over his body.

“Well I wasn’t, and now I am,” John slowly replied, his voice getting significantly louder. “Is that alright with you or am I only allowed to have one fucking opinion for the rest of my life?”

“So what, you don’t like it when I’m jealous but you don’t like it when I’m not either? Is that it?” Paul snapped back.

“Don’t fucking play stupid, it doesn’t suit you,” John bit back with a furious look.

Paul slowly breathed out, closing his eyes not to let irritation get the best of him. Despite his boiling emotions, he really didn’t feel like getting into a fight; even less at a party with more than 50 other people.

“Okay, fine. I won’t say anything about Cyn anymore. Whatever,” Paul let out in a sigh, trying to will the anger away.

John briefly glanced at Paul’s lips before looking up to glare at him, his eyes still dark with anger but with a tinge of something else too – which Paul soon understood was want. With his hand still on the wall, John’s arm was brushing Paul’s and their hips were basically touching, creating electricity between their bodies. Paul looked at John’s mouth, and realized just how easy it would be to just kiss him, even just quickly. Suddenly, Paul startled when something squeaked on the tiled floor. John and he both turned their heads to the noise and found Ringo at the entrance of the corridor, a glass in hand and halfway turned away from them, as if he was trying to leave discreetly. He turned his head and looked at them, caught red-handed, and looked embarrassed. Paul felt his neck flush when he understood he _had heard them_.

“Sorry,” Ringo let out in a lightly strangled voice. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

The scrutinizing glint in his eyes only confirmed Paul’s doubts. John stepped back and briefly rubbed his nose.

“You’re not. I… We should go back anyway. We don’t want to miss the party, do we?” He exclaimed loudly, leaving Paul and going past Ringo to the go back to the party.

Paul watched him go silently, then met Ringo’s thoughtful gaze. He shrugged, trying to look as casual as possible, and Ringo sent him a little hesitant smile. The two of them silently followed John back to the living-room, and Paul’s heart was beating wildly in his chest.

A little later, Paul had managed to lose Ringo in the crowd (even if he wasn’t proud of it) and was actively looking for John, anxiety burning behind his eyelids. A dozen of scenarios rolled in his mind, of Ringo going to talk to Brian, or trying to coax things out of them. Of Ringo being mad at them, or disgusted. Maybe he hadn't heard anything, or maybe he hadn't really understood what he had seen. After all, they were not straight up kissing, were they? He could not make Ringo un-hear what he had heard, but Paul still wanted to talk to John about it, even just to ease his mind a little. 

He found him next to the buffet, and Paul let out a relieved sigh. He quickly got closer, making sure Ringo was not anywhere close, and stopped next to him, careful not to touch him whatsoever.

“So,” Paul started, pretending to look at the food on the table. “What do we say if he asks questions?”

John briefly looked at him with a small frown, his hands busy over a plate of crudités.

“Who?” He asked flatly.

“Ringo. He saw us.”

John shrugged, adding some ham on his plate. He was clearly trying to cut the conversation short, and that realization sent a spike of hurt in Paul.

“So what?” He asked unhelpfully.

Paul waited for John to look at him to frown, careful not to lean too much into him.

“What do you mean ‘so what’? You don’t care if he knows about us?”

John quickly looked around the room and pulled a face. There was no one close enough to hear what they were saying.

“I thought you’d have told him already,” He confessed, sounding truthful, yet a bit terse. “What with you both being from the same time-travelling boy scout club.”

Paul mulled it over, looking at the punch in the giant bowl in front of him. 

“So you wouldn’t mind if he knew?” He probed further.

John sighed, visibly thinking it over. He still looked quite irritated.

“I mean, better him than someone else, right? That would make one less person to lie to.”

Paul thought his words over, processing and digesting them. He had a point – having someone close to them know about them would indeed make things a tiny bit less heavy, a bit easier.

“Not that we’re much of anything,” John mumbled in his glass before downing it.

Paul frowned again at that, but before he had time to answer anything, John was leaving the buffet, burying himself into the crowd. Paul tried to follow him until a hand fell on his shoulder, stopping him dead in his tracks. He turned to face Brian. 

“Paul, I was looking for you! There’s someone I want you to meet,” Brian told him with a tight smile.

Paul reluctantly followed him, and the rest of the night pretty much went along the same lines: every time he tried to break free to find John and try to talk to him, someone came along to talk to him or congratulate him about the band. Usually, Paul loved that kind of attention, but that night, it felt more like a curse than anything. Quiet, and tranquillity; a place to be able to enjoy John, and to really be with him. That was all he asked for, but the world seemed to be set on not giving it to him. 

And lately, John himself did not seem very eager to give it to him either. 

The next day, Paul was not hungover, but he felt exhausted and miserable. He was angry at John, angry at himself, angry at the world. But most of all, he was tired, and frustrated, and he felt stuck. He felt like he was in a very complicated situation, and every time he tried to think about it more closely, his thoughts and emotions seemed to flee between his fingers. In order to distract himself, he studied Ringo’s list and tried to come up with one of his own, writing down everything he remembered from his last day in 2019, and from his first day in 1965 too, just in case. The words accumulated and Paul could not find any clue in them, nothing that lit up the lightbulb inside his head. Feeling even more disheartened, he went to his phone and composed Ringo’s number. It was only when the line started ringing that he realized he _did not_ want to talk to Ringo, not after the previous night, but the time it took for him to realize that was enough for Ringo to actually pick up the phone.

“Hello?” He said, oblivious to Paul’s trouble.

“Hi, Ring,” Paul answered in a breath, feeling very stupid all at once. Then, figuring he might as well go all the way: “Are you free this afternoon? Do you want to come by my place for a while?”

It was stupid, and reckless, and Paul cursed himself the second the words left his mouth, but still he waited impatiently for Ringo’s answer. Some part of him really needed a friend at the moment.

“Sure,” The answer came easily. “I can be there in an hour?”

“Great. Great. Cheers then. I’ll text you—uh. No. My address is 56, Cumberland Terrace.”

Ringo laughed loudly in the phone.

“How long have you been here, already?” He teased him.

“Shut it. I’m tired, alright? See you later, you git,” Paul replied, a smile bursting on his face.

He hang up, and thought that perhaps talking to Ringo was not such a bad idea.

True to his word, Ringo arrived an hour later, and his kind smile immediately appeased Paul. Paul gave him a little tour, telling him how John and he had painted most of the walls, and showing him the newest pictures he had pinned to his wall. He was quite proud of his little flat, and felt good in it; he was even very seriously considering buying it from his landlord, even if he knew he could buy just about any full house he wanted. Ringo and Paul then settled in the kitchen, and Ringo went to the entrance for a while before coming back with a paper bag. 

“I brought cinnamon rolls,” He told Paul.

“Oh, I love you,” Paul answered with a hand on his heart.

Ringo laughed and put the paper bag on the table, carefully taking out the cinnamon rolls. Paul sat at the table, salivating at the sight. He took one and picked at it with his fingers, wanting to make that small joy last. 

“Are you alright?” Ringo asked, sounding a bit worried.

“Sure,” Paul replied, out of reflex.

“You don’t look so good, though.”

Paul just sent him a quick smile, choosing to focus on his pastry instead.

“Don’t worry about me, man.”

“Is it about John?” Ringo asked gently. 

Paul’s stomach violently twisted and he forced himself to look up. There was something intense in Ringo’s eyes, some sad glint, that convinced Paul that somehow, he _knew_. He really knew. Paul couldn’t know why he was so sure of it, but he would bet his life on it. And even if he didn’t know, Paul was too tired to hide it and too happy to have someone who could really _understand_.

“Yeah, we um…” He started, struggling to let the words out. “You may have understood it already, but. We are… Um. I’m not, you know, but we are… you know…?”

He widened his eyes and lowered his head, hoping Ringo would just get it without him having to actually say it. It really dawned on him at that moment that he had never actually told anyone what he and John were. 

“You mean you’re together?” Ringo mercifully finished for him. “Like, for real?”

A deep sigh escaped Paul. Tension left his head but was still very much present in his body, his shoulders, his stomach.

“Yes,” He nodded. “Is that… is that weird? I mean, no, I know it’s weird, but, you know… it’s not… I mean, it just requires some getting used to I guess…”

“Relax man, I’m not judging you,” Ringo embarrassedly chuckled. “I kind of figured, actually. I mean, before yesterday. Not that you’re obvious or anything, but…”

“But what?” Paul asked with a frown, fear gripping him once again.

Ringo pulled a pensive face, visibly thinking his words over. 

“You look different around him. Especially when we were in Spain. You’re more like the way you were with Linda, or even Nancy. And he still looks at you _that way_. And you know, seeing how much you cared about him even after he was gone, back in… the future, I don’t know. It makes sense.”

Paul leaned back on his chair, letting out a deep breath he did not know he was holding. 

“God, I had no idea I was acting any different,” He breathed out, truly stunned.

Ringo only chuckled. 

“It’s really subtle, don’t worry. I guess I just saw it because I’ve known the married version of you.”

Paul thought about his words again, and a detail suddenly stood out to him.

“Wait wait – what do you mean he '_still looks at me that way_'?” He asked, confusion taking a hold of him.

“Well…” Ringo started, widening his eyes like Paul had just before. 

Paul unconsciously followed his movement and it suddenly hit him.

“You _knew_?! About him… liking me?” He exclaimed.

Ringo rolled his eyes and shrugged, a weird combination that showed he was not totally comfortable with the conversation. Paul himself was feeling so hot he was sure his neck was as red as a beet but he still needed to know.

“I didn’t _know_ know,” Ringo explained. “But, you know, these last years there were a lot of rumours about him, and about him _about you_, and when I would think about it, and reflect about how he used to look at you, it didn’t seem so far-fetched to think that… yeah.”

Paul leaned towards him, waiting for the end of the sentence – that Ringo had apparently forgotten along the way.

“To think that what?” He finally prompted him.

“That he liked you as more than a friend. And turns out I wasn’t wrong, was I?”

Paul took a minute to let that sink in and sent him a small smile, shaking his head playfully. A slightly more comfortable silence fell upon them, as both their gazes got lost in the void. It was strange: Ringo knew his secret, and he was still here. He was still as kind as he had ever been.

“But if you’re together now, what’s wrong then?” Ringo suddenly piped up after a while.

Paul sighed, eyes still on his cinnamon roll. He tried to find a reason, and only one word came to his mind. The one that had started his whole turmoil in the first place.

“Yoko,” He said simply.

“What? He still wants to go with her?” Ringo whispered, a bit shocked.

“No, no, he says he doesn’t care about her,” Paul admitted. “He barely met her.”

Ringo frowned in confusion. 

“Then what’s the problem?”

It was then, as he was trying to find words to explain it, that Paul realized he did not actually know what the problem was. It was more about feelings, emotions: he was scared, tremendously, and felt guilty. Scared that John would realize he had nothing to do with him and that he should just go with someone else, be it Yoko or not. Scared to be the bad guy and to cause pain to the people he loved. And guilty that even though according to him the right thing was to let John go back with Cynthia, or even be with Yoko, Paul was not able to let him go. He did not even sincerely believe John would leave him, not seeing how things were right now, but the very thought of losing him was agonizing.

There was no problem. The only problem was how he was handling his own emotions. He let out an embarrassed chuckle.

“I don’t know,” He confessed. “I don’t know what’s wrong, actually.”

Ringo did not say anything to that, as if that answer somehow made sense.

“Does anyone know?” He asked Paul gently.

Paul shook his head. He was feeling drained all of a sudden, finding all his anger had magically flown away. 

“I’m not even sure _I_ know, to be honest,” He let out in a sad chuckle. “It’s so… hard.”

“Love is never easy,” Ringo said.

Paul snorted. 

“Thank you, Gandhi.”

Ringo chuckled and took a bite of his cinnamon roll.

“It’s crazy, though,” He started again. “You and John.”

Paul felt his cheeks flush a bit and he just smiled tightly.

“Yeah.”

“Do you think that’s why you came back? To get with John? To like, fix a missed opportunity?”

Paul was about to say no but stopped himself, the words blocking in his throat.

“I don’t know,” He truthfully said. “Wouldn’t explain why you came back too, though.”

“That’s true,” Ringo admitted, though he still looked pensive. 

He pondered about it for a while, and Paul saw him frown and un-frown alternatively.

“Since when are you together? If you don’t mind me asking,” He asked after a while.

The words made Paul feel all weird and he cleared his throat, embarrassed. They were not used to talk feelings together. Paul was not even sure they had ever really talked about George or John after their passing.

“Um. Officially since like, mid-September. But we, uh… Like, it started before. During the US tour. We were, you know…”

Ringo covered his ears with his hands, pulling a grimace.

“Okay okay, stop, I’m good, I don’t want to know more!” He hastily told Paul.

There was something so genuinely scared in his tone that it only made Paul laugh. Ringo swatted playfully at him then smiled.

“It’s okay, though, Paul,” He said after, sounding serious again.

“What?” Paul asked, still smiling.

“You two being together. It’s okay. You know that, right?”

Paul look at him dumbly. The words were simple, and yet the relief and warmth they brought over Paul was worth thousands.

The whole evening saw Paul turning Ringo’s words over and over in his head. He couldn’t believe how much he had needed to hear that, how good it felt to have been told that. To feel accepted, validated even, in a way. It was okay.

_It was okay_.

On the spur of the moment, he left the dishes he was cleaning and went to the phone, composing the number he already knew by heart with soapy fingers. He was already in his pyjamas, it was near 11pm and he was supposed to spend the day with his brother and his fiancée the next day, but he couldn’t wait until then. He couldn’t wait at all.

The phone rang for a moment until a familiar nasal voice rose on the other side.

“Yes?” 

“Can you sleep over at mine tonight?” Paul asked without preamble.

Silence rang loudly on the other side for excruciatingly long seconds.

“So now you don’t want me to stay with my wife?” The answer came, on an accusatory tone that was not as fiery as Paul expected it to be.

“John, please.”

Another silence, then a sigh Paul could barely hear.

“I’m coming.”

John hang up right after and Paul felt a small smile tugging at his lips.

Paul anxiously waited for John in his entrance hall, sitting on the cold floor Thisbe purring on his lap. He looked like a lunatic, but he didn’t care. When the bell finally rang, after what felt like forever, he gently pushed Thisbe off and got up to answer it. He paced for a while, and he could hear the steps coming up the stairs through the door. He opened the door before John had time to knock.

The two of them stood face to face, both a bit surprised and out of breath. Blinking back to life, Paul stepped aside to let him in, soundly closing the door after him. John seemed to hesitate for a moment, then slowly took off his coat and his shoes. Paul noticed he was in his pyjamas as well, and the sight made his heart clench in more ways than one.

“Come,” Paul told him, pointing at the corridor with his head.

Paul went straight to his bedroom, getting into his bed without thinking much about it. After a few seconds of silence, he turned to the door of the room and saw John standing there, looking sheepish and embarrassed. Feeling a smile blossoming on his face, Paul simply opened the blanket next to him. John approached slowly, as if he was not quite allowed to be there, and climbed into bed. Paul just watched him, lying on his side with both hands under his pillow. When John was finally settled, they were lying face to face and staring at each other silently. 

“I told Ringo,” Paul whispered after a very long moment. “Well, he had sort of figured it out already, but still.”

John simply looked at him, his expression carefully guarded. 

“Okay,” He said after a few seconds.

“He said it was okay. It’s stupid, but it made me feel good, so I thought you should hear it too. You know.”

John didn’t answer, worrying the inside of his cheek between his teeth and staring at Paul with a strange expression. They were staring at each other for God knows how long when he finally spoke again, quietly. So quietly that had Paul moved a finger, he would have missed it.

“I’m tired of fighting with you.”

Feeling a warmth spreading in his body, Paul slowly reached out and put his left hand on John’s right one. Then, after a few more moments of staring, he turned around, not letting go of John’s hand and forcing him, in a way, to spoon him. He was relieved to notice John was pliant against him. He felt him put his cheek against his back and let out a deep, shaky breath, squeezing Paul into his arms. 

Maybe it was true. Maybe they were both tired.

Waking up with John’s hair in his mouth could have been seen as unpleasant, and yet, it was the nicest feeling Paul had felt in quite a while. Slowly opening his eyes, he noticed they had moved a lot during the night: the sheets were everywhere, their legs untangled with John on his stomach, his head on Paul’s shoulder, and Paul weirdly turned towards him, with one arm under him – which he could not feel at all anymore. It had gone totally numb at that point. Paul watched John sleeping for a while. That was when he liked him the most: when he was deeply asleep, his features all relaxed, his guard down. After half an hour though, the pain in his shoulder screamed at him to move and he gently nudged John’s arm. John slowly blinked awake, frowning then relaxing when he recognized Paul. Paul smiled at him and, obeying to his instincts and striving not to overthink it, he leant closer and gave John a nose kiss. He saw a soft smile appearing on John’s sleepy face and got up without a word. He went straight to the bathroom to take a shower, which would leave the other man a little more time to fully wake up.

He took all his time showering, getting lost in his thoughts and in the foamy soap. The simple fact that John had come to him without question, late at night, in his pyjamas and when they had left each other on a fight on their last encounter amazed him. When he finally got out of the shower and was all dressed, Paul walked straight to the kitchen, knowing by instinct that he would find John there.

And there he was indeed: standing against the stove, checking on the pan of beans softly cooking with a wooden spoon in his hand. He looked so soft and sleepy that Paul wanted to cuddle him into oblivion. He approached the table and stopped with his hands on the back of the closest chair.

“I’m sorry I was a git the other night. And for trying to get in the middle of Cynthia and you,” He said suddenly, the apology exulting to have finally come out. 

John turned to him and shrugged. He looked genuinely surprised though, and his cheeks had clearly gotten rosier.

“It’s alright. Sometimes I’m a mean bastard, so you’re right to call me out on my bullshit,” He answered. “As long as you don’t humiliate me, though.”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

John turned back to the beans and turned off the stove.

“Sit. It’s ready,” He told Paul on a flat tone.

Paul obeyed, feeling a bit jittery. Was it too late already? Was John too tired of Paul and his mood swings? He couldn’t stop the fear growing in him, pushing away the hunger he had felt when he had first smelled the food. He couldn’t let John tumble out of his life like that, over stupid arguments and insecurities. Not after everything they’d been through.

“I’m spending the day with my brother and his girlfriend today,” He told John, observing his reactions. “You want to come?”

John stopped chewing his beans and levelled him with an unreadable look.

“As your what?” He asked, straightforward. “To you, I mean?”

“As my boyfriend,” Paul replied straight away.

John kept looking at him for a while, slowly chewing again. Then, with a nod, he simply said:

“Okay.”

They kept eating in silence after that. Paul had a thousand things to say, but at the same time he was happy to be able to just be with John without anything getting in the way, not even words. Once they were both finished, John went to get dressed, borrowing some clothes from Paul, and they left with Martha and Paul’s Mini Cooper. They didn’t say much on the way apart from benign nothings, and Paul somehow managed to shut his fears out. As long as they behaved strictly platonically, his brother would not suspect anything. Mike knew they were best friends, and that John was going through a separation, in other words through a rough time. Everything was fine. It was okay.

The day ended up being really nice: they visited Mike’s new house, ate lunch, took a stroll all together in a nearby park. It was quiet, and lovely. It was as simple as things could get, and even though they could not really do anything, Paul could feel the softness in John’s eyes when their gazes met. They were hiding, but there seemed to be no anger on either side, no boiling frustration. They just made the most of their time together in the conditions they were given. Paul wondered a couple of times what excuse John could have given Cynthia before leaving for Paul’s, but he forced himself not to dwell over it for too long. They were separated, it was clear between them. Paul needed to leave John enough space to handle it how he wanted to.

They finally left Mike and his fiancée, and it was tacit that John was going back home with Paul. They stopped in the building entrance and John took Paul’s small key from his hand to open his mail box, picking up Paul’s mail. The two of them got back into the flat in a comfortable silence, and Paul suspected John didn’t want to break this fragile peace either. After having taking off his velvet jacket, Paul followed John to the kitchen and saw him standing next to the table with the letters in his hands, looking tired but very soft. It really struck him, then. 

There wasn’t any problem at all.

In a few steps, he approached John and put a gentle hand on his arm. John looked up, surprised. Paul leant in and kissed him in the gentlest way he was capable of, relieved to feel him kissing back after a few seconds. When he pulled back, he swallowed with difficulty and locked his gaze with John’s.

“Thank you for today. It was nice, having you there,” He said genuinely.

The small smile John sent him there was undoubtedly one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen.

“Well, it’s normal. It’s what boyfriends do,” He answered in a slightly hoarse voice.

It was clear as day to Paul that he was trying to sound casual about it, but Paul could feel the emotion in his voice. Paul chuckled, stress starting to pour out of him. Choosing not to push his luck, he went straight to the music room, lighting up only the small lamp on John’s old bedside table. He preferred to play for a while so that he would leave John the space he probably needed. But he hadn’t seen John had followed him to the room, and as soon as he sat on the bed with his guitar, John took it from his hand and gently put it back in its case. Once the guitar secured, he pushed Paul a little more against the wall and carefully sat on his lap, facing him. Paul let him do it, feeling a bit too stunned to react anyway. He did not know what to expect, but he surely didn’t expect John to lean in and wrap his arms around his waist in the softest and strongest hug he’d ever been given – and he had been hugged by George before, so that was saying something. 

They stayed like that for a while, simply hugging, until John straightened his back and put his hands on Paul’s neck, observing his face silently. Paul watched him back, and the moment was so calm and understanding Paul felt like an idiot for having ever doubted they could be good together. Then, ever so slowly, John leant and kissed him on the corner of his mouth, letting his chapped lips linger on Paul’s skin and warming him from the inside out. Paul did not dare react, and just stared at him, feeling strangely emotional. With one hand still on Paul’s neck, John raised the other one to push away the loose locks on Paul’s forehead, drawing his features with the pad of his fingers in the process. When he kissed Paul again, fully on the lips this time, it was more heated, with more intent. He lightly bit on Paul’s lower lip and Paul kissed back just as fiercely, opening his mouth to lick him in retaliation. It was just like their first kiss all over again: vibrating, burning, full of hope and disbelief. The only difference was that this time, Paul was not scared.

Their movements soon got more hectic, and John started undressing Paul, pulling his jumper and his t-shirt in one go over Paul’s head and unbuckling his belt. Paul let him do, helping him as much as possible without moving from his spot, still sitting on the bed with his back against the wall. John had to get up eventually, but he wasted no time in pulling off Paul’s pants and briefs, leaving Paul only in his socks. He then proceeded to quickly undress himself, taking off his glasses too, and soon enough he was fully naked apart from his undershirt. He turned his head back to Paul and met his questioning gaze. 

“I’m a bit cold,” He explained sheepishly.

Paul laughed delightfully in response and grabbed John’s hand to pull him to him, meeting him with a heated open-mouthed kiss. John quickly pulled away though, sending Paul a mischievous smile.

“Wait here,” He whispered.

Then he got out of the room in a flash, leaving Paul cold and painfully hard behind him. Paul felt stupid, left on his own in such a vulnerable state, and wondered for a moment if that was some sort of punishment for having been so vindictive. Doubt started flooding in him again, and minutes passed agonizingly slow. Was John even still in the apartment…? Even though he was still as hard, Paul sat up to push himself out of the bed just when John finally came back to stop right in front of Paul, his pupils dilated and his breathing quicker. Paul understood what was going on before he had to say anything. 

“Lean back. I’m ready,” John said with a husky voice.

Paul obeyed without thinking, and a fleeting thought passed through his lust-hazy brain.

“Wait, where’s the condom?” He asked in a breath as he watched John climbing on the bed.

“I haven’t slept with anyone else in months,” John answered quickly, and his gaze was so intense Paul was mesmerized. “Have you?”

Paul shook his head and that answer brought a small, satisfied smile on John’s face. John started sinking on him then, his hands on Paul’s shoulders, and Paul guided him, holding him as gently as possible. Unsurprisingly, John was not as ready as he thought he was (they still lacked some experience in that domain) but he pushed through with gritted teeth, and Paul kissed him deeply the whole time, only stopping to let him breathe and pepper his face with butterfly kisses. Every time John winced, Paul winced with him and held him tighter against him, and when pain finally started fading away from John’s face, he was holding Paul so firmly Paul was sure he would have the traces of his fingers for days. The thought only made him want John more, though, and he accelerated his movements, burying his face into John’s neck.

When they were finally finished, both panting and covered in sweat, they smiled lazily at each other and Paul dropped a final kiss on John’s nose. It had been instinctual, and for a second he was scared the gesture was too girly for John, but his boyfriend’s smile only grew bigger, revealing the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes.

They got up together, a mess of limbs and chuckles, and John looked at the darkened sky they could peep through the window. 

“It’s a good thing you don’t have neighbours right in front,” He joked.

Paul glanced at the window too and laughed.

“Yeah, would be quite a show for them,” He answered. 

They both got out of the room, and John started running to the bathroom.

“I’m first!” He cried out. 

Paul started running after him but he was too late, and when he entered the bathroom John had already locked himself in the shower and turned on the water, his undershirt lying carelessly on the ground. Paul considered pulling him out of it by force, but then he was too scared to make him slip on the watery floor and hurt himself. So he just playfully banged on the shower windows, only to be met with a reversed V sign and a devilish smile. He laughed, picked up John’s – or rather, _his_ – undershirt and took off his socks in the meantime. John was quick in business, and a few moments later he came out of the shower, his hair dripping on his face and on his back. He looked amazing, and Paul had to force himself not to stare if he didn’t want to just get excited all over again. He handed John a towel wordlessly, and John smiled softly at him, dropping a quick kiss on his cheek.

Paul finally got in the shower, and the hot water soothed his slightly aching muscles, draining all the tension away. He took all his time, something he was not used to do. He had had a long couple of days, and it was nice to just enjoy a quiet, peaceful moment. Just knowing John was in the apartment, at ease and happy, was enough to warm his heart and make him smile to himself like an idiot. When he finally turned off the water and got out of the shower, John had put Paul’s pyjamas and a clean pair of briefs next to the sink. Paul’s heart swelled even more, and he quickly put them on. He walked out of the bathroom, feeling all warm and fluffy.

“John?” He asked loudly.

“In the living-room!”

Paul followed the voice and when he arrived in the living-room, John was in his pyjamas, lying on the couch with his feet propped up on the coffee table, a cushion under them. The television was on, displaying some musical TV show. Martha and Thisbe were both sleeping peacefully in their beds next to the couch. A smell of rice and mushroom was floating around and Paul saw John had heated up the leftovers that were in the fridge. He was holding one bowl of it in his hands, and another bowl was waiting for Paul on the coffee table with a spoon. Paul didn’t think it was possible for someone to be more perfect.

“Telly and leftovers?” John proposed, looking at Paul with a raised eyebrow.

Paul smiled and nodded, plopping himself down next to John, making sure their arms and thighs were touching. For a long moment they didn’t talk, just munching on their rice and watching the musical program. Paul leant closer to John, nudging him with his elbow, and John got the message; he opened his arm to slide it across Paul’s shoulders, bringing him even closer to him. The show was not very interesting though, and it was getting quite late. Feeling his fatigue pulling at him, Paul slowly let his eyes flutter close. He was feeling good right there, cosily snuggled against John. 

“I can see your eyes closing, you know,” John chuckled above him.

Keeping his eyes closed, Paul only hummed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” He answered.

John laughed in response and playfully pushed Paul to get him to get up. He extricated himself out from under Paul and got up. Paul grunted and let himself fall flat on the couch, which made John laugh harder. He turned off the TV and grabbed Paul’s hand to pull him up. Still groaning, Paul let himself be pulled but did nothing to help him, ending up half falling onto the floor. John bent down to pick him up under his armpits and tried unsuccessfully to heave him up.

“Come on, you’re too heavy, I can’t… I can’t!” He told Paul, laughing the whole time.

Laughing too, Paul finally took pity on him and got up. He went to his bedroom with heavy feet and opened the door. He glanced quickly back at John and saw him hovering awkwardly next to the door. For a second, Paul was confused as to why he was hesitating, then realized he was still insecure. The thought pained Paul and he grabbed John’s hand to pull him with him.

“Don’t be stupid, love,” He told him with a soft smile.

John’s eyes shone in answer and he followed Paul inside. They both got into bed with their hands still intertwined, entangling their legs together and lying face to face. They softly watched each other until sleep inevitably came over them. 

It was the best night Paul had had in a long while.

The next morning, Paul was rudely woken up by his phone ringing. Half lying on top of John, it took him a few seconds to where and when he was. He looked at his watch on the bedside table and saw it was barely 7am. Grunting, he got up with his eyes still half-closed (how he envied John for just sleeping through the ringing phone, oblivious) and went to pick the phone up, Martha happily bumping her nose into his legs to say good morning.

“Hullo?” He huffed, rubbing his neck.

“Paul? It’s Brian.”

“Oh, hi. You’re calling early,” Paul noted.

“Yes, sorry if I’m waking you up,” Brian answered. “Could you come to my office this morning?”

Paul froze; something in Brian’s tone sounded strange. Suddenly, he didn’t feel sleepy at all anymore.

“Yes, I can. When?” He answered carefully.

“Whenever you can.”

Paul hesitated a moment, trying to gauge whether his manager sounded rather angry or worried. 

“Okay. I’ll be there in half an hour,” He finally confirmed.

“Thank you. See you later.”

Paul hang up, and stayed up next to the phone for a couple of minutes. It was weird – Brian never asked for such impromptu meetings. And never for Paul alone. Paul remained calm though, because none of the scenarios he played in his head that could possibly explain that meeting were bad enough to panic. He went back to his room, where John was still sleeping, and quickly got dressed. When he was ready, he sat next to John on the bed and caressed his hair and his face. As expected, John finally woke up and smiled sleepily at Paul, stretching like a cat.

“Brian just called, he wants to see me in his office,” Paul explained, his hand still in John’s hair. 

That caused John to frown, confused.

“Now?” He asked, and his voice was adorably hoarse. “Why?

“Yeah. I don’t know why, and I don’t know how long it’ll last. Are you staying here?”

John grabbed Paul’s wrist to read the time on his watch, then shook his head. 

“No, I should go home. I’m supposed to take care of Julian today,” He said, sitting up in the bed.

“Okay. I’ll call you later?” Paul replied, looking hopefully at John.

“Sure,” John answered with a smile.

They stayed looking at each other for a few seconds, then Paul leant forwards and quickly kissed John on the mouth before getting up. He left the apartment before he was tempted to do something stupid – like kissing John again and bury himself into his bed with him for the rest of his life.

The drive to Brian’s office was quick, and Paul found himself in front of the new offices of NEMS without having really had the time to wonder what was going on. He got in easily, saying hi to Freda on the way, and went straight up to Brian’s office. He knocked briefly on it and Brian’s voice welcomed him in from the inside. Paul entered, smiling, but felt his own face fall a little when he caught the somewhat sombre expression Brian was hearing.

“Hi, Paul,” He told him with a handshake. “Thank you for coming so quick. I wanted to see you yesterday but I was swamped with meetings.”

“Of course, don’t worry,” Paul answered, taking a seat in front of the desk.

Brian sat in his chair too and put his elbows on his desk. He laced his hands over his chin, eyes down and pensive, and for the first time since he had called him, worry seeped into Paul. Then Brian looked up and asked him, point blank:

“Alright. What’s going on between you and John?”


	44. Chapter 44

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for some strong period-related homophobia in it.  
Thank you for your unbelievable kindness, all of you!

The question was so direct, so loaded with insight and even some accusation that Paul tensed, getting immediately cold and defensive.

“Why aren’t you asking him? Isn’t he your favourite?” 

“Because he would lie,” Brian answered, not deterred by Paul’s low blow.

“I’m a better liar than him,” Paul retorted straight away.

“Yes. But you dislike it more.” 

At that, Paul remained quiet, cursing himself for letting Brian know him that well. So he just maintained Brian’s straight gaze, trying not to let him know he had him cornered. Even though Brian probably already knew it. After a few moments of silence, Brian chose to break it by rephrasing his question, on a slightly gentler tone:

“Is there something going on between you and John?” 

Paul stared at him, answers floating in his brain. But seeing the seriousness and the tiny spark of genuine concern in Brian’s eyes, he knew there was no point in lying anymore. He suddenly felt tired to his bones but made sure not to show it.

“Yes,” He answered, his eyes burning into Brian’s. 

He was surprised not to read any reaction on his manager’s face.

“How serious is it?”

Paul shrugged with one shoulder, his gaze floating for a second.

“Does anyone know?”

For some unfathomable reason, Paul knew he couldn’t tell him about Ringo. He didn’t want to. Brian would be upset, angry. It would probably fall back on Ringo, somehow, and he did not want that. His guts were screaming at him to protect this one secret, even if it was stupid and would most likely just blow up in his face later on. So, ever so softly, not leaving Brian’s gaze, Paul shook his head. 

Only then, Brian got up in a nervous movement and started pacing next to his desk, releasing a sigh so deep it almost hurt to hear it. Paul could still not quite see his face, but his very slightly shaky hands were telling of his emotional state. When he turned around to face Paul, he had somewhat schooled his expression and slowly sat down at his desk.

“Okay. There are two things I want you to know,” He started, on a business-like tone. “First, as your friend, as long as you and John are happy, I’m happy for you. Love is precious and it needs to be protected at all cost. But second, as your manager…”

He sighed deeply again. A certain weariness seemed to have fallen upon him, crushing him under its weight.

“Look, I’m not going to lie. I’m not thrilled about this. At all. And I really wish you had told me sooner.”

“Why should I have?” Paul huffed, feeling cornered. 

“Because I’m the only person who could help you,” Brian replied firmly – and Paul felt his neck grow hotter with shame at that. “You two are going to need all the support you can get. I’m… You know, it’s a hard life for me already and I’m not famous, nor adored. I’m not a Beatle.”

Brian stopped talking and looked down at his desk, a serious expression on his face. There was a certain sadness in his squared jaw that went directly to Paul’s stomach, twisting it. 

“It wasn’t against you,” Paul offered quietly after a while.

“I know, I know,” Brian answered, looking up at him. “I’m not trying to make you feel guilty about it. But I’m not sure you realize how serious this is.”

“I know th—”

“No, I don’t think you really do,” Brian cut him off, not harshly but still firm. “This is dangerous, and reckless. Public opinion might be starting to… lighten up, a bit, on the subject, but a vast majority of the people still hasn’t changed their mind. If anyone gets a hint of it, you will receive death threats. You will be harassed, your families too, and some people will find any excuse possible to hurt you or just push you under a car over one wrong look – that is if you are not arrested, sent to prison or even tortured depended on where you get caught. You could both end up dead in a ditch under a week. I am not joking. You may think I’m overreacting, but I’m actually surprised you haven’t received threats yet. And I’m not even talking about your careers.” 

He stopped, sighed again and slightly shook his head, a sad ghost of a smile on his lips. Paul’s stomach was ice cold, his whole body suddenly turning into lead.

“Don’t get me wrong, if it wasn’t that serious between you, I absolutely would ask you to break it off. Even though I know you would never liste—”

“What makes you say it’s ‘_that_’ serious?” Paul asked abruptly, unable to stop himself.

At Paul’s great surprise, Brian snorted. Saying it was unusual from him was a euphemism.

“I truly hope that if it was just sex you two wouldn’t gawk at each other like that.”

Paul shut his mouth quickly, feeling his neck grow even hotter. 

“No one needs to know,” He finally countered, anxiety waking up and twirling in his head.

“And no one can _ever_ know, Paul,” Brian insisted, staring straight into Paul’s eyes. “Not as long as the band exists – and even after that. You can’t tell anyone, and you need to be extremely careful. A lot more than you are right now. If I could pick it up, others will.”

“Okay, but we’re kinda good at sneaking around. Believe me. And, you know, you _know_ us. Better than most people. And yet it still took _you_ time to—”

“Paul, I’ve known since Los Angeles,” Brian sighed.

Paul froze, gaping a little. His mind went reeling and fear started seeping through his bones and into his veins.

“I’ve had doubts for years, and seeing you two at the house in Los Angeles only confirmed them. And that’s not even mentioning Ringo’s party. You were _ridiculously_ blatant at that one.”

“What do you mean you’ve had doubts ‘_for years_’? We haven’t… I mean, you know. It hasn’t been that long.” 

Brian sighed again, and Paul almost felt vexed to realize it was the umpteenth time already.

“You’re a smart man, Paul. You know how suspicious close male relationships can look. And you and John are closer than anyone I know. There are already words going round about you. They have been for years, but these last few months, they have skyrocketed. Especially when people noticed John lived at yours for a while.” He paused, a new sad glint in his eyes. “Why do you think I suggested to John to wait to get divorced, and to go back to his house for the moment…?”

Paul took it in, unconsciously gripping tighter the arms of his chair. Facts twirled in his head and suddenly, it all seemed to make sense. 

“I managed to smother most of the rumours, but they could pop back up at any time,” Brian went on, serious. “Especially if you keep behaving so carelessly.”

He picked up a little black agenda on his desk, opened it and started writing in it.

“We’ll need to talk about it, the three of us—” He started.

Paul opened his mouth but Brian stopped him with a raised finger even though he was still looking at the page in his agenda.

“I know you think this is none of my business, but it is. I don’t need to remind you that you two are half of the band. So this is a big deal. It doesn’t rejoice me either, believe me, but we need to find solutions _together_—” He glared a little at Paul at that “—to keep you as safe as possible. We need to find ways for you to keep seeing each other in a secure way– that is, discreetly. And frankly, I’m sorry, but you are tremendously overestimating your ‘sneaking around’ skills.”

Paul frowned. 

“Don’t sulk,” Brian continued, diving back into his agenda, and Paul could almost swear he was vaguely amused. “I’ll think about it a bit better and I’ll call you when I find a date to talk, okay?”

Paul raised his hand, knowing there was no point arguing anyway.

“Sure,” He agreed in a sigh.

Brian raised his head at that and for the first time since Paul had walked into his office, he looked surprised.

“Sure?” He repeated incredulously.

Paul frowned again.

“What, ‘_sure?_’?” He mirrored.

Brian blinked as if he was chasing his slip of surprise away. 

“Oh, nothing. I’m just not used to have you agreeing with me without arguing.”

That remark brought a little, tired smile on Paul’s face. If Brian only knew…

“Well, people can change, can’t they?” He simply answered.

A few minutes later, Paul left Brian’s office in a strange mood. He tucked his face into his scarf, his hands into his pockets and walked with his gaze glued to the floor. Now that Brian knew, he felt more vulnerable, more open to everyone’s looks and judgments. Brian’s arguments had shaken him – which was the point, obviously, but it was still quite a shock. He guessed he knew John and he could not stay in their bubble for eternity but having it popped like that was still a rough wakeup call. They _were_ in a dangerous position. And Paul had now fully understood how important it was that they were both aware of that. A looming fear was icing his feet already, making him feel heavier and heavier with each step. Maybe it was too late. Maybe someone had seen John come out of Paul’s apartment and had followed him to beat him up, or had messed with his car, or—

Paul stopped walking, breathed deeply. He quickly scanned the street around him and when he spotted a red phone box, he rushed right to it. Quickly composing the number, he leant against the glass with his back to the street, hoping no one would recognize him. The phone started ringing for agonizingly long seconds, and Paul tried his hardest not to let senseless panic get to him. John had probably not even arrived to his house back yet…

“Hello?”

Paul let out a relieved breath.

“John,” He simply said, trying to find his calm again.

“Oh, hi love!” John answered joyfully.

“Brian knows about us.”

He was met with silence for a couple of seconds. 

“Um… Wow. Okay,” John said, sounding gobsmacked.

“He’s known since LA,” Paul went on, ripping the band aid off. “Apparently we are not discreet at all and he wants to see us soon about it because it’s too dangerous and there are already rumours.”

John breathed out as if it had been punched out of him.

“Wow. Okay. That’s… Okay. That’s a lot at once.”

Paul sighed, curling even more into the phone. He put his forehead against the cold glass and closed his eyes.

“I know. Sorry, just… he kind of freaked me out, actually.”

“Where are you?” John’s voice was soft.

“Near the office, in a public phone booth. The street’s quiet, though. I probably should have called you from home but I… I needed to hear your voice.”

“I’m here. I’m okay.”

Paul let the words sink in. His breathing was more regular already.

“Why did he call just you, though? Why not me?”

The clear jealousy in John’s voice made Paul smile to himself.

“He said you were more likely to lie.”

“But you’re a better liar,” John knowingly noted.

“I know, I told him.”

John let out an annoyed breath, but Paul could hear he was mostly putting it up for show. When he realized he was probably just trying to change Paul’s mind, his chest warmed a little. He breathed deeply again and looked at his watch then at the street behind him. 

“I should leave you. Wouldn’t want a bystander to eavesdrop on me,” He said.

“Alright, I’ll go back to my poetry writing then. Yes, you heard that right, I’ve picked up writing poetry again and it’s superb. Oh, and I gave some wet food to Martha before I left earlier.”

Paul’s face morphed from a tender smile to a frown in a clap of fingers.

“John! Those are only for special events!” He chastised him.

“It _was_ a special event. She was being especially cute.”

Paul couldn’t help but laugh, and suddenly found that all the fear and tension had disappeared from his mind and body already.

“Fine,” He sighed, pretending to be more annoyed than he actually was. “You want to write tomorrow?”

Silence followed his words for a couple of unsettling seconds. 

“Yeah. Yeah, sure,” John’s response finally came, a tad too casual.

“What’s wrong?” Paul asked, smashing the phone against his ear in a desperate attempt to hear John’s breathing.

“Nothing. Just… nothing. It’ll pass. I’m good.”

“What is it…?” Paul insisted, frowning.

“Don’t worry. We’ll talk about it later, yeah? I promise. For now, just get off the dangerous streets. Go back to your furry babies.”

Paul hesitated for a second; he hated not knowing things, or when people kept things from him. But at the same time, he wanted to respect John’s privacy. Especially when he was visibly making efforts to share his thoughts and feelings.

“Okay,” He finally relented. “See you, love.”

“Bye babe.”

Paul hung up, John’s last word resonating on a loop in his head.

When he arrived back home, Paul was welcomed by his two pets as if he had been gone for days instead of just short of two hours. He took off his coat, went to the kitchen to add some water to the pets’ bowls and prepared to read the news, spotting the newspaper lying on the table – John had probably left it there. When he picked up the newspaper, the mail from the day before fell to the floor and it reminded him that had not opened them yet. He had not even opened his mailbox in quite a few days. Among the numerous ads, there was a letter from his insurance, a postcard from Wales from one of his aunts and a white envelope that had just his name on it. 

Intrigued, he put down the insurance letter and the postcard on the table and proceeded to open the bare envelope. Inside was a letter with big black cursive letters. At first glance he did not recognize the writing, and it wasn’t signed. Even more curious, he started reading and as soon as the words registered in his mind, his whole body froze. Parts of sentences popped before his eyes, concretizing all his fears. 

'_[…] faggot […]  
[…] we know who you are […]  
[…] disgusting fairy […]  
[…] should kill yourself […]  
[…] a shame for our country and our youth […]  
[…] tell the police […]_'

He slowly sat on the closest chair, the letter trembling between his fingers. He somehow forced himself to stop reading, and folded the letter to shove it back into its envelope. 

Frozen, he stared at the envelope for so long that his feet started to grow cold from the absence of movement. The words kept floating in his mind, over and over and over. He knew those words, had heard them being told to other people – and he had even heard some of them addressed to him before – but he had never been the sole recipient of such violence, such hatred. He had never thought he would ever feel so personally attacked. They genuinely hated _him_, for who he was. He knew thousands and thousands of people had suffered the same kind of discrimination over the decades, and even centuries, but it was only dawning on him now how protected from it he had been until that moment. How lucky he had been before to be able to love freely. He had been called his fair share of slurs in his youth because of his looks, but this was vastly different. It was overwhelming. Brian’s warnings seemed pale in comparison. A sombre omen. 

In a swift movement, he got up, took the envelope and hid it at the bottom of his deepest kitchen drawer. He then stood in the kitchen, shaking all over, passing his hand on his face when he suddenly felt like he might throw up. For some unfathomable reason, he did not want to throw the letter away. It was targeted at him – he did not want it to get lost to the outside world, to maybe land into somebody else’s hands. He could of course just destroy it, shred it into pieces, but touching the paper burned his fingers and now that it was back into the envelope, he didn’t know if he would have the strength to face it again. And maybe he would need it for proof, later.

Who had sent it to him? Seeing how there was only his name on the envelope, it could only mean someone had deposited it directly into his mailbox, which was even more terrifying. It was someone who knew who he was, and who knew where he lived. Someone in his own building, maybe. Were those real threats? There was no real coherent thought or demand through the hateful lines, behind the initial feeling of ‘I hate you because of who you are’. How seriously should he take it? Should he tell Brian? Or even John? He found himself reluctant to tell him. He was so upset himself that he could not imagine bringing that much fear and pain upon his boyfriend. Not right away, at least. He needed time to process it. Alerting the authorities would have been the automatic choice had the ‘accusation’ not been founded. He _did not_ want to bring the attention of the police on his and John’s relationship. After all, it was still illegal. God, he could go to jail. He could die…

Shaking himself out of the terror creeping inside of him, he decided that staying in his apartment and worrying about his and John’s future was not the best solution. There was nothing he could do at that moment, concretely. A visit to the Harrisons would be the perfect distraction. He needed a dose of adorableness from baby Grace, now more than ever. He was probably not going to be the best company, feeling angry and scared, but at least his friend’s bubbling happiness would perhaps make him stop thinking about the threat and Brian’s warning in a loop. So after a brief phone call to George to check if they were home, he called Martha, picked his coat back up and left the apartment with the happy puppy on his trail. 

Less than an hour later, he was walking up to George’s house with Martha running in front of him. George, who had probably seen him come through the windows, was waiting for him in front of the glass doors with a suspiciously broad smile on his face. He was wearing brown pants he floated in and a bright yellow dressing gown, which made him look like a weird ripe banana.

“What?” Paul asked, not really in a laughing mood.

“You look really well for a dead man,” George answered with a mischievous grin.

Paul stopped and frowned.

“What?”

George petted Martha and motioned him to follow him inside with his head. Paul complied, not even trying to understand the joke through his confusion and worry. George led him to his salon and picked up a newspaper that Paul recognized as the one he was about to read when he had found the threatening letter. He opened the newspaper to a specific page and handed it to Paul with a raised eyebrow.

Intrigued, Paul took it and just a look at the title was enough to exacerbate his irritation: _‘Is Beatle Paul McCartney dead?’_

“You got to be kidding,” Paul groaned. 

George unhelpfully laughed.

“They say you going twice to the hospital in so few months apart is the proof you were killed and replaced by a lookalike,” He said, pointing at said parts into the newspaper. “And that that’s why Jane left you and that you sold all your old things. And why you’ve been acting a bit weird lately. Which, truth be told, is not a lie.”

Paul could not believe it. He could literally not fucking believe it. As if his past was not haunting him enough already.

“Killed by what this time?” He sighed.

He saw the confusion flashing over George’s face but he did not have the energy to try and correct his mistake.

“Your head concussion. Apparently you fell into a coma and never woke up. You know, you could have told me you were dead. I’m supposed to be your friend.”

“Yeah. Brilliant,” Paul retorted coldly, closing the newspaper and throwing it on George’s couch. 

George frowned and his smile slowly faded from his face.

“I thought it’d make you laugh. It’s rubbish. You shouldn’t mind about it.”

“It’s fucking insulting is what it is. I’m tired of this.” 

Paul rubbed his face and when he turned back to George, his friend looked worried. 

“Is everything alright, mate?” He asked point blank. “You’re crabbier than usual. And you’re already pretty crabby, usually.”

Paul sighed, sitting on the couch and trying to school his face into a more relaxed and nicer expression. It wasn’t fair to let out his anger and frustration on George. Martha was running around in the room, smelling everything. George approached and sat on the coffee table in front of him, lacing his fingers together. He looked as if he was getting ready to hear Paul’s confession.

“Sorry,” Paul forced out. “I’m tired of hearing rumours about me. Anyway. How’s Gracie? Are you not even going to let me see my goddaughter?”

George observed him for a moment before drawing a slow smile. He was obviously suspicious but some reason, didn’t seem to want to push it. Maybe he was not suspicious enough to.

“She’s eating with her mum, upstairs. They should come down in a minute.”

“And how are you?”

George let out a shaky breath with a smile.

“I’m alright. I don’t sleep much, but I‘m alright. I haven’t broken Gracie yet so I guess I’m doing good,” He chuckled.

“You are,” Paul confirmed with a genuine smile.

George smiled at him, and even though he looked amused, Paul hoped he understood how true it was.

As promised, Pattie and Gracie arrived a few minutes later. The baby was wonderful (even if according to Paul all babies were wonderful) and it was nice to just see her blink and yawn. He stayed with them for a while, trying – and failing – to clear his head of any bad thoughts. George was glowing, even though his skinny face and arms proved parenthood was taking its toll on his body. When he got enthusiast about starting recordings soon, Paul was reminded another issue he had carefully closed his eyes on this far: Ringo. They had not talked about the band yet, not really, and Paul had no idea what his position on the rest of their careers was. Would he even agree to stay a Beatle? Would he want to go solo? Paul strongly doubted that last option, but after all, this was an exceptional situation. He didn’t know how Ringo would react to it. This far, he had seemed to become well accustomed to his new-old life, at least with Maureen, but the band was a big deal. A _very_ big deal.

Once again shaking his worries away, Paul decided to face the problems once at a time, as they came along. For now, he was enjoying his friends’ company and fulfilling his role as godfather. And he was waiting for Brian to call him and John back to his office. Maybe he would talk about the threat then. Brian would know what to do. He always knew what to do. 

Paul and John were sitting in the two chairs of Brian’s office, waiting for Brian to arrive. 

Paul very much felt like a schoolboy about to be scolded. Freda had called him early to ask if he was available at 10am, and he had prepared himself with a growing feeling of unease. He knew that conversation was necessary, but god, he really didn’t want to have it. Having someone tell him what he should or shouldn’t do in his own romantic life had to be the most degrading and belittling thing he had ever gone through. Well, maybe not _the_ most, but one of them for sure. He had left his apartment with an ashy taste in his mouth and what felt like a permanent grimace stuck on his face. The incriminating letter was burning the fabric of his pants, tucked in the pocket.

When he had arrived at NEMS, John was waiting in the hallway, looking pretty much spooked himself and rubbing his hands convulsively together. They had barely even smiled at each other before Freda was here to open Brian’s office for them, telling them he was stuck in traffic but should arrive soon. Paul had wondered if she knew what they were here for; it was hard to tell from her ever-smiling face.

So now they were both waiting in silence in the office that had never seemed so big. John’s foot was quickly bouncing where it was laying on his other leg, and Paul, who was biting his nails to the core, kept throwing glances to it. It was getting truly annoying. At some point he couldn’t take it anymore and just slapped John’s foot away from his leg.

“Stop it,” He let out in a huff.

“You stop it,” John childishly countered with a frown.

Paul glared at him. The door behind him opened and Brian entered like a gust of wind, going straight behind his desk.

“Sorry boys, I was meeting with someone at the other end of the city, I hadn’t planned the traffic would be so bad,” He apologized, putting his attaché-case down on his desk and taking off his coat without really looking at them. 

Paul and John stayed silent, both just watching him. Paul was so stressed he wanted to slap himself back to normalcy. Brian finally managed to put all his things away, sat down on his chair and looked up to them with an open expression. But instead of talking he froze, letting out an awkward chuckle.

“What’s with the long faces? I’m not your father, I’m not going to punish you,” He said, visibly trying to lift their spirits but sounding terribly awkward about it.

Paul glanced at John to see him grin awkwardly, not quite meeting Brian’s gaze. For a second he looked like he was going to make a joke about it, then changed his mind. Yep. They were all being awfully embarrassed about this. Brian cleared his throat and maniacally arranged the items on his desk, probably just to keep his hands busy.

“Alright, let’s just, not waste any more time and just dive into it, shall we? John, I suppose Paul told you about our meeting yesterday?” He started, looking up at John.

“He did,” John confirmed, and Paul was happily surprised to notice he sounded confident, almost defiant. “But first of all, can I just say that I think it’s quite rude of you to have called him on a meeting on a Sunday of all days?”

Paul raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. He had not even noticed it, but it was always nice to have John defend him. It made his belly squirm. But judging from Brian’s unimpressed face, he wasn’t as enamoured by it.

“This is not a joke, John. It’s an urgent matter,” He chastised him, sounding very much like a reprimanding father despite his earlier statement. “You cannot strike any argument in public like the one at Ringo’s house or at mine anymore. Either of you. Is that clear? No one can suspect what’s going on between you is anything but professional.”

Paul frowned, the words ticking in his mind.

“Wait a second… We’re friends,” He said, pointing at John and himself. “I mean, we’re still friends. People know that.”

“Wait, you want us to pretend we’re not even friends anymore?” John added, catching on too.

Brian sighed and shook his head.

“No – of course not,” He replied in a sad voice, which did nothing to reassure Paul. “But we need to take the focus out of your item. If people see you together all the time, even if you remain platonic, they will get more and more curious.”

“So what, we just stop seeing each other?” Paul bit out.

“This is a bloody joke,” John reinforced at the same time.

“Stop! Listen to me, both of you,” Brian asserted on a louder tone, raising his arms in an appeasing gesture. “What I’m saying is, we need to take care of your public image. As individuals, and as an item. Go out with your other friends. Paul, don’t hesitate to talk to women even more than you already do. It’s best if you see each other privately and discreetly, in your own homes. For any band-related event, you should be careful not to stay next to each other too much. Be sure to always have Ringo or George with you. Do not go into situations where you could get caught. That means no secret rendezvous in bathrooms, _please_. And John, I know it’s complicated, but it would help you – and Paul – if you kept bringing Cynthia to social events. I know you want to divorce, but I really encourage you not to. At least not for a while.”

“What do you mean by ‘_a while_’?” John probed with squinty eyes.

Brian hesitated before answering. When his answer came out, it sounded final. Crushing.

“Not as long as you two are together and the band still exists.”

The silence suddenly felt suffocating. Ever so slowly, John slumped in response. Beyond the grumpy demeanour, he looked genuinely upset. Following a crazy instinct, Paul reached out to take his hand and noticed how Brian’s eyes immediately tracked the movement. It felt like his gaze was burning Paul’s skin but he refused to move his hand. And after a couple of seconds, he could feel John’s fingers tentatively lacing with his. Paul finally turned to meet Brian’s eyes, and he was surprised to meet a great sadness there. Even guilt.

“You know, I don’t enjoy telling you this. I hope you know that. I would never wish this kind of hiding upon anyone, least of all you two. But I care about you, and I want you to stay safe.”

Paul could feel John’s fingers were twitching in his hand. He squeezed them tighter.

“We know,” He softly told Brian.

Brian observed his face for a moment, then John’s, then their laced fingers. A soft smile erupted on his face.

“I would understand if you didn’t believe me, but you two are lucky. You look…” He stopped himself, cleared his throat. “You look good together. Happy.”

Paul was about to answer but John beat him to it.

“We are,” He said, and there was something so fierce about his tone that Paul felt a comforting warmth spread in him.

It made him hopeful.

After a few more pieces of advice and recommendations, Brian finally let them go. Paul felt a bit shaken, but overall it had gone better than he had expected. The things Brian had told them were unpleasant, sure, but none of them were a real surprise. He guessed that was sadly the price to pay to be in a safe homosexual relationship in the 60s.

John and he slowly traded downstairs to end up in the entrance hall, thankfully deserted. They both went to pick up their coats on the coat rack. 

“You want to eat something?” John proposed in a tired voice that just made Paul want to hug him. "Then off to writing?"

“Not in a restaurant though, remember?” He countered weakly.

John sighed and raised his eyebrows in a gesture that screamed ‘yeah, tell me about it’. They opened the door and froze instantly as they were met by a downpour. Paul started buttoning up his coat, noticing the street was void of almost any bystanders – they were probably discouraged by the heavy rain. Perhaps they could allow themselves just one restaurant? A tiny last one? Lost in his thoughts, he vaguely saw John taking a cigarette out of his packet and bringing it to his mouth. He turned to Paul with a smile.

“Paul.”

“Mm?”

“Do you realize that we are officially gay?”

Paul froze with his hands on his top buttons and frowned at him.

“No we’re not,” He quickly defended himself – even though he didn’t even know why he felt the need to.

At that, John rolled his eyes so hard it was probably painful.

“We’re officially _not straight_, if you prefer.” 

Paul just glared at him, aching for one of the cigarettes waiting in John’s packet just to have something to keep his hands busy.

“Although I’m pretty sure taking it up the ass classifies as gay,” John went on, casual as ever.

“Will you shut up for a minute?”

John smirked at him and finally lit up his cigarette. He had barely taken a puff off of it that Paul was pushing it off from his hand with a flick of his fingers. They both watched the cigarette fly away to land in a puddle nearby.

“Are you for real?!” John asked, gaping.

“It would have been put out by the rain anyway,” Paul retorted.

He smirked and started sprinting to his car that was thankfully parked nearby. A few seconds later, he could hear John’s steps running behind him on the sidewalk. It reassured him. He was always right behind him.


	45. Chapter 45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm repeating myself, but thank you, again. Hope you enjoy this one.

Sitting in the small Italian restaurant in front of John was stressful for Paul in ways he had never experienced before. The restaurant was nearly empty safe for a couple of old people in the front, and they were safely secluded next to the kitchen. They had come there straight after leaving Brian’s office under a pouring rain that had had them soaked in seconds. The owner of the restaurant, an old Italian lady, had had them take off their coats, shoes and even jumpers to get them to dry in the kitchen where they had hangers above the oven, apparently. Finding himself in socks, pants and t-shirt made the whole lunch feel strangely home-like and cosy, but Paul was still restless and high on alert. More than ever, he felt like he was extremely vulnerable, like anyone could just burst in and arrest him at once if he even just glanced at John. Oddly, John didn’t seem to care at all: he was eating his spaghetti with gusto, humming to himself (to which Paul tried very hard not to smile) and gorging himself on garlic bread. Finding it hard to eat himself, Paul just stopped trying to look at his boyfriend.

“Well, I see that at least you haven’t lost your appetite,” He noted after a moment of observation.

John looked up with an amused glint in his eye.

“It’s delicious. Wanna try?” He replied, handing his full fork to Paul.

Paul shook his head with a small tired smile, pushing the fork away from his face.

“No I’m good, thank you.”

“Your loss.” John swallowed the forkful and then glanced at Paul’s plate, practically untouched. “You’re not going to eat that? You’ve barely touched it.”

“I’m not very hungry,” Paul simply answered, feeling void. He couldn’t help a quick look around to check if anyone new had entered the restaurant. “And I don’t think we should hang around here for too long, you know.”

At these words, John suddenly stopped eating and looked at him with a deep frown. Confusion was painted all over his face, and slowly morphed into incredulity. He let out a disbelieving gasp.

“Oh my God,” He said. “You believe it.”

“What?” Paul replied, confused and on edge.

“Brian. You actually _believe_ what he said.”

Paul didn’t understand how that was possibly incriminating, but he suddenly felt very embarrassed.

“Well, I don’t see why I… wouldn’t…” He said, shaking his head, still quite spooked.

“Is this the grandpa in you talking?! Scared of everything?” John replied, looking far too amused in Paul’s opinion. Then, lower: “Look, I don’t know how these gay things are going in the XXIst century but come on, we’re not in the Far West! Nobody’s going to spy our every move to accuse us of buggery! That’s bullshit. And we’re not going to get beaten to death ‘under a week’ if we go out together sometime. We’ve done it before and it was fine. Brian was being _overly_ dramatic.”

Paul frowned, his brain nothing but confusion and fear. He checked around compulsively again, just in case.

“But he’s right to worry—” He started.

At that John let out a quick laugh.

“Brian worries about _everything_, love,” He went on with a disbelieving smile. “That’s the man who eats bowls of anxiolytics for breakfast and washes his hands fifty times a day. Come on, you know better than that. You can’t take everything he says literally.” 

Paul kept frowning, thinking everything over. John sounded confident. He had to know better how to interpret Brian’s warnings, didn’t he? After all, he was more accustomed to these times than Paul was. Paul did still have his 2019-coloured glasses on. But he still couldn’t quite shake off the fear Brian’s speech had awakened in him. He _knew_ what kind of horrible things could happen to people with different sexual orientations and would keep on happening even into the 2010s. Those dangers were real. And he had even received a threat himself… Which he suddenly realized he hadn’t told Brian about, after all. He looked at John’s open face, and didn’t really see any real worry in there where he thought he had read some earlier. Was he just projecting his own worries and fears onto John? Was he just exaggerating too? All things considered, threats were not that exceptional in his line of work. And it was far from being the first threatening message he’d received from a crazy fan, but. But. This time it was different. Wasn’t it?

“You looked upset,” He finally said, lifting his eyes up to John’s. “In his office.”

John pursed his lips, pushing his chicken around with his fork. 

“Yeah, well, I’m not a fan of the whole thing with Cynthia, I’ll give you that. But on a purely public perspective…” He stopped for a moment, breathed deeply then sighed. “I guess… I do understand his point. And with all the fuss he made when we got married, it makes sense he would make one when we divorce too. Though I think I can ease him into, you know, not panicking about it. I’m sure he’ll come around eventually.”

Paul just looked at him. For a second, he suddenly felt very stupid. Had he really become very naïve, had he lost all his courage with years, or what…? As if he’d read his mind, John leant forward and Paul could feel his leg gently brushing against his under the table. Paul looked down again, feeling a bit ashamed.

“Paul, hey, look at me,” He started, very gently – but Paul found he couldn’t. “We don’t need to live in fear. Homosexuality might be illegal, but not _that_ many people care. I mean, I guess they do, but a lot of them just don’t see what they don’t want to see, know what I mean?

“It won’t be, soon,” Paul answered, his mouth seeming to act on its own.

John frowned slightly.

“What?”

“Homosexuality,” Paul elaborated, the word feeling dangerous in his mouth, vile. “It will be legalized next year. And in the next few years to come – or well, decades, well, things will get a lot easier and a lot… you know, open for... for g—”

He stopped himself, finding the words suddenly hard to say. He swallowed, frowned, trying to push the words out. 

“For people like us.”

He forced himself to finally look up and met John’s gentle and thoughtful gaze. He was slowly chewing some bread, holding a piece of it in his hand.

“Well, that’s even better, then,” John said after a while. “See? We won’t get shot in the street.”

Paul breathed deeply, trying to blow his anxiety out of him a little. Until John went back to his meal and finished his sentence, painfully casual and even a bit sarcastic.

“Not for another fourteen years anyway.”

Paul snapped his head up so quickly he accidentally banged his arms against the table, his blood turning ice cold in his veins. John flinched with surprise, his piece of bread flying straight into his creamy pasta.

“Shut up! Don’t say that!” Paul suddenly lashed out.

John looked at him with raised eyebrows, a little spooked. Finding his breathing had suddenly accelerated, Paul tried to calm himself down and looked around. The couple at the other end of the restaurant were looking at them in surprise too. He breathed deeply, and started again, considerably lower.

“Don’t joke about it. Please.”

John numbly nodded. Feeling bad about his sudden outburst, Paul fished John’s bread out of his plate, blew on it as if it had been covered with dust, and handed it to John with an apologetic smile. John took it slowly, his face blank, but soon enough Paul could see the corners of his lips trembling, proving he was fighting a smile too.

“Danke shön,” He said, his eyes shining.

“De nada,” Paul replied. Then after a short pause: “Meine Liebe.”

John’s smile truly broke out and he pointed at Paul’s plate with his chin.

“Eat. You need it.”

Figuring he had a point, Paul slowly started on his linguini, which turned out to be very good – at least some comfort in his misery. He caught a glimpse of John watching him eat with a loving glint in his eyes, but pretended not to see it. 

Soon after they left the restaurant, and were a bit disappointed to see that the rain had not diminished during their lunch, far from that. Protecting themselves as much as they could, they ran straight to Paul’s car and when they reached it, their carefully dried clothes were drenched once again. They closed the car doors and froze for a moment, both a bit stunned from the intensity of the rain. After a few seconds, they both turned to each other, their hair plastered to their foreheads, and started giggling uncontrollably. Paul took off his soaked coat – with John’s help – and started the car, and the whole ride saw them laughing and trying not to wet the car seats too much. Which of course was a lost cause.

Without really thinking about it, Paul automatically drove them to his place, happy to find a parking spot right in front of his building entrance. When he realized he had not asked John if he was good with this plan, he turned to him but he didn’t have the time to ask that John was already getting out of the car and running to the entrance. Well.

Unable to repress the smile growing on his face, Paul turned off the engine and followed him suit. He stopped at his mailbox, dread building in his stomach, and was relieved to see he had not received any new mail. His hand kept toying with the letter in his pocket, finding a masochisticicpleasure in touching the incriminating paper. He didn’t know what to do with it yet, but he didn’t want to think about it for now. When he arrived at his apartment and heard John’s voice inside of it saying good morning to a happily barking Martha, he was even surer of his decision. Their moments of happiness were too far and between, and he didn’t want to ruin this one with such a dark matter.

He entered the apartment too, and found John’s soaked shoes, coat, jumper and even his pants thrown a bit carelessly in the entrance hall. A warmth spreading in him at the sight, he followed the noise and found John sitting on the floor of the salon, religiously petting Martha. Thisbe was sitting on the couch right beside them, watching them with her tail waving lightly. Paul wanted to engrave that vision in his mind forever. 

“Don’t move,” He suddenly told John.

Ignoring John’s surprised look, he went straight to his bedroom to retrieve his camera. He took it out of his protecting case and came back to the salon, where John had not moved and just watched him curiously. Paul went exactly to his first spot and carefully framed his picture. He was glad when John instinctively understood his intention and did not look up to the camera, simply petting the dog with a peaceful smile on his lips. Paul took the picture, and for a moment he was like an impatient little kid and couldn’t wait to actually see it, to hold it in his hands and be able to look at it all the time. His heart ached for his old (future?) digital camera. 

“So, writing?” He asked John as he put the camera down on the TV cabinet. 

John’s smile faltered a bit for a second, short enough that had he not been so acutely attuned to his every expression, Paul would have missed it. He frowned, worry taking a hold of him. 

“What’s wrong?”

John shrugged as he got up from his spot, his shirt hiding part of his bare calves and his socks high on his shins, and went to the heater to switch it on. When he started speaking again, he wasn’t looking at Paul and sounded a bit cautious. 

“Can we really call it writing?” He replied, his voice carefully neutral. 

Paul watched him go to the couch and sit on it, bringing his legs in front of him to circle them with his arms. He looked so unsure and uncomfortable that Paul only wanted to hug him. Which, he suddenly realized with clarity, he could do. 

Paul approached him slowly and sat next to him, facing John’s side. He put one gentle hand on John’s knee before taking him in his arms. The position was a bit weird, even more since John didn’t lean into him and remained stiff, closed in. 

“What are you doing?” He asked, a bit circumspect. 

“Hugging you,” Paul simply replied. 

“Why?”

Refusing to let himself be deterred, Paul hugged him tighter. John was like a vigilant rabbit; one wrong word could make him run away and lash out.

“Because I wanted a hug,” Paul said.

John didn’t answer, and Paul could literally feel his brain turning at full speed, trying to understand how he was supposed to react to that, if he ought to be annoyed, endeared or outraged. Not wanting to leave him enough time to choose, Paul spoke up again. 

“I don’t want to do songs I already know either. I want to write with you. You know, for real. I miss it.”

“So what if I just play something you still already know?” John retorted, and more emotion could be felt in his voice already. 

Paul sighed. He didn’t know how to avoid that situation. 

“That’s a risk indeed,” He finally settled on answering, figuring being honest remained the best course of action. “I don’t know what to tell you. What do you want to do if that happens?”

John turned his head to look at him. There was something intensely searching in his gaze, and Paul would have felt vulnerable had he not felt so thoroughly safe. John briefly looked down at Paul’s lips, and Paul suddenly registered that he had taken off his glasses too – probably to get rid of the fog on them. 

“Tell me, right away,” John told him after a while, staring into his eyes. “Don’t let me play and think I’ve found something brand new.”

“Okay,” Paul nodded.

John kept watching him, his expression unreadable. Paul did the same, studying every single little detail on John’s face: his stubble, the curve of his lips, the hint of amber in his irises, his moles, the soft crinkles at the corner of his eyes, the rebellious hairs of his eyebrows, the light freckles on his cheekbones. A wave of affection came over him, and he was a bit stunned by its intensity. He still couldn’t quite believe it. A smile he couldn’t contain tugged at his lips, and John looked down at his stretching lips before smiling shyly too. 

“What?” He asked, visibly caught between being on the defensive and being flattered.

“Nothing. You’re beautiful,” Paul simply replied. 

John raised his eyebrows at that, and for some reason, he looked genuinely surprised. 

“Is that how you flirt with birds?” He questioned, and Paul could swear he was a bit flustered, which pleased him greatly.

“That’s how I flirt with you, at least,” He replied with a cheeky smile, knowing fully well it made him look good.

John looked at him intently, then back at his lips again, ever so slowly leaning into Paul. Then he froze and shook his head.

“Bastard.”

Paul laughed. When John finally loosened his position, Paul enjoyed the occasion to hug him more properly, pushing John back against the couch. John’s eyes were shiny and happy, and Paul couldn’t hold it in any longer so he just slipped his hand under his neck and kissed him gently, deeply. John moaned in reply, turning more fully on his back to let Paul fit in between his legs and half on him.

“You’re all wet,” He noted in-between two kisses. 

“That’s no way to talk to a lady, you know,” Paul joked.

John laughed and caught Paul’s neck in-between his warm hands to kiss him again.

“That’s no way to write either,” He told Paul with a mischievous smile.

“I couldn’t care less about writing right now,” Paul confessed with a grin to match John’s and leaning in to kiss him again.

John gasped dramatically and leant back against the armrest of the couch, keeping Paul’s mouth from touching his. 

“How bold of you to assume I want to have sex with you,” He said, sounding very dramatic too.

Paul chuckled, accommodating himself a bit better to fully lie against the other man. He could feel all of him.

“Man, you’re rock hard.”

“And? How is that relevant?” John countered, his gigantic grin somewhat mitigating his words.

Paul grinned harder in response and quickly leant forward, not letting John any time to stop him this time. John kissed back straight away though, sighing into it, and soon enough they forgot how damp they both were, and what writing even meant. 

They did end up writing that afternoon, and they were both relieved to work on a song neither of them knew – and which started from one of John’s ideas. A new melody flowing through their veins into their guitars. Paul felt giddy, full of energy, and the happy look on John’s face told him he was not the only one blessed by his muse on that day. It was reassuring and invigorating to see that they were still able to create together, to make new music, new songs. They still had it – whatever ‘it’ was. Just like they used to, they created that one song fast, in one row, the lyrics literally pouring out of them. They felt natural – logical. They spent such a lovely time together that when John announced he had to leave to pick Julian up from a little friend’s birthday party, Paul felt like he had only been there for a dozen of minutes, and not nearly four hours. Paul was happy to see John taking care of his son, more than he had in the past, but watching him leave remained a bit heart-breaking. It made him feel like a mistress; after their brief parenthesis together, John had to go back to his other house, with his real family, where he was awaited. John was Paul’s family in this time, in some ways even more than his own father and brother, and realizing once again that they couldn’t just live happily together awoke a twinge of sorrow in his heart. It was hard to close the door on John and to turn around to his empty apartment, void of John’s laughter and of his clothes strewn everywhere. Brian’s words resonated in him again, and with them the anxiety burning in his stomach. Was John right? Was Brian just dramatizing everything? A little voice in his head told him that Brian’s speech was not to be discarded so easily. He did have good points – and prudence could never hurt. After all, better safe than sorry. But he did want to believe John too. To believe that they wouldn’t have to be as paranoid and outwardly cold as Brian had suggested they needed to be. He guessed only time would tell. 

It was several hours later, as Paul was fixing himself some dinner over the stove, that realization suddenly dawned on him. He froze with the garlic in one hand and the knife in the other. There was a reason why the lyrics of their new song seemed so logical: they had a strong resonance with one of John’s old (later) songs. There were several differences, of course, and the melody was totally distinct, but… yes, the similarities were numerous. He smiled to himself, reciting to himself what he remembered of ‘(Just Like) Starting Over’. What were the odds that in this timeline, present John would end up thinking of the lyrics old John had thought of nearly fourteen years later? Was there a connection between their situation right now and the one old John had been in when he had written that song, somehow? Knowing he would never get to the bottom of it was frustrating, but Paul was also happy to see how their creations, whatever happened, were never totally lost. It was like a cycle: ideas flowed through time and space to find themselves again, to forge beauty again under a different light. John’s talent was timeless, and no limit could tame it. Realizing that made him feel warm, reassured. Like he could not do wrong. 

He really hoped it was true.

In the next three days, Paul saw John only once for another writing session. They were at Paul’s house, and were then able to enjoy each other in peace in all the possible ways, but it still felt too short. Like stolen time. It was a new rhythm to adapt to, and Paul was not sure how long it would take him. Stress and fear were always right there, lurking in the corner of his thoughts, and at every moment of weakness of tiredness, they threatened to come out and consume him whole. He tried his best to keep them at bay, and to focus on his daily life, on his music, on his other relationships. It was a bit like walking on a tight rope: everything was going alright as long as he looked right ahead, kept his feet steady and did not think about the void underneath him. He was unsettled, caught between his habits and a whole new world he was only grazing for now. He didn’t like not being in control, not knowing what tomorrow would be made of; mostly, he didn’t know feeling like would the situation turn wrong, he might not be able to fix it. He might not even know how to react. It was strange, at his age, to comprehend that he could still be taken by surprise. The best he could do for now was cherish John and their moments together, and try not to long for him during his absence too much. He didn’t want to spend his moments without John like a diver in apnoea. It wouldn’t be healthy, and he would not be able to last long like this. He needed to create himself a new life with John in it, and not around him.

John was a good distraction from his low spirits, though. He was so adorable, lively and energetic he was practically glowing with it. From the little time they got to spend together, Paul thought he looked… happy. If he was not satisfied with their situation – and Paul could only assume he was somewhat affected by it too, at least a little – he did not show it. Perhaps it was for Paul’s sake, although Paul sort of hoped John wouldn’t keep it all inside because of him. He doubted it would do both of them any good to ignore the elephant in the room, or to just push all their fears and worries about the future away. Or maybe Paul was just overthinking it again, and John really was just happy and careless. Perhaps he was happy to just see Paul once in a while, and did not want or need to see him more often. At first, the thought had formed in Paul’s mind in an attempt to qualm his anxiety, but in the end, the idea that John might not want to spend more time with him hurt him deeper than he was ready to admit.

Despite John’s affection and good mood, Paul’s worry stayed persistent day after day. The letter was a nagging reminder in a corner of his mind, too. At first he had wanted to call Brian and tell him about it, but now that it had been several days, and that the words had faded a tiny bit from his memory (he hadn’t read it again), it felt like old news. He didn’t want to bring it up anymore, neither to Brian or John. Slowly but surely, he convinced himself that there was no use to; it would only worry them, and Brian did _not_ need to be worried even more. If the person who had written the letter to begin with ever got in touch with Paul again, then the question would get real and Paul would tell them. But until – if ever – that day happened, it seemed best to keep it a secret. Well, not a secret. To keep it… on the side. 

The 24th of November finally arrived, and with it the time to go back to the studio. Paul did not know what to expect. He had not talked about the album with the others, not even with John. He knew they were ‘supposed’ to make Sgt Pepper’s now, but he felt a bit odd about it. It was, originally, a strongly themed album, and making it again with the same intentions and the same artistic visuals seemed complicated. Paul felt it like it would be unnatural. Stilted. He did not quite know where that feeling was coming from but it had been growing stronger and stronger in him over the previous weeks. He had not felt like that about ‘Revolver’ – and the album had turned out to be relatively similar to the ‘original’ one. But this time, things were different. 

Starting with Ringo.

When Paul arrived to the studio, he was surprised to see Ringo was already here, banging softly on his drums, looking distracted. They were supposed to start recording at 1pm, and it was only 11am, so quite early. Paul liked arriving first, even before the engineers and other employees of Abbey Road. He loved being alone, reconnect with the instruments, with the atmosphere of the recording room. Breathe in the inspiration and the music captured by the walls. He loved it even more when it was a first day of recording, and when everything felt a bit new, a bit polished, as if it was his first day of school and he had a brand new set of notebooks and pencils. Ringo was usually a punctual man, but it was the first time Paul saw him arrive _that_ early before a session. He knew right away that it meant something and could not be just a coincidence. 

“Hey. Is everything okay?” He asked with a smile.

Ringo looked up and offered him a tired smile. His features were drawn, and he had dark circles under his eyes. It was not surprising that he would be nervous for his ‘first’ recording as a Beatle, but Paul still worried to see him like that.

“Yeah. Just needed to clear my head. Channel my inner Beatle,” He feebly joked.

Paul chuckled and stopped next to him, leaning against the wall and fighting hard not to just cross his arms over his chest. He was not comfortable with this situation either.

“It’s like riding a bike, it comes back straight away,” He replied, opting for a neutral answer.

Ringo barely smiled and put his sticks away.

“So. How are going to do this? Do we like, just play our old songs all over again?” He asked, sounding a bit perplexed about it.

Unable to stop himself any longer, Paul crossed his arms, his gaze floating around. He found out it was hard to look Ringo in the eyes.

“Well, that’s what I’ve been doing so far, you know,” He explained, trying to sound more assured than he felt. “I thought it wouldn’t be fair to John, George and um… well, you, but back then, not to do them. And for the world too, you know? I mean… they meant a lot to a lot of people so it wouldn’t be fair to deprive them of them… don’t you think?”

Ringo didn’t answer for a while, seemingly deep in thought. As the seconds passed, Paul felt his patience and confidence dwindle away but stopped himself (at the very last second) from rushing his friend. _Finally_, Ringo sighed. 

“I don’t know, man. It feels wrong to just copy-paste everything… That doesn’t sound like music to me, you know?”

Paul took it in, trying (and failing) not to take it too personally. He leant a bit more fully against the wall and raised his chin.

“Alright. What d’you reckon we should do, then?” He asked, hearing himself a bit too snappy for his like. “Pretend they never existed?”

“Or we could just record the ones we really love. Like, the ones we miss or… that we, like, enjoy playing. And for the rest, I don’t know… You won’t like it, please don’t get mad, but I think we should trust George’s and John’s judgment first. Their opinion is what matters most here, and they should have the last word on things. Maybe we should… you know, think of us as a new band. A new version of the Beatles. You know…?”

Paul eyed him, still with his arms crossed on his chest and trying very hard not to take it wrong. Stay open. It was difficult to make sense of the uneasiness inside of him.

“It’s...” He started, still thinking about it. “Argh. Yeah, okay, I guess that makes sense, but… I don’t want to lose those songs. If we don’t record them, they’re gone, you know?” 

The softness in Ringo’s eyes was almost too much to bear.

“We can still record them, but like, on the side? Keep them for later. Or for ourselves. We can make another album with them. It’s not like we are going to forget them, is it? I mean, I probably will, but knowing you, you won’t,” He finished with a chuckle.

Paul breathed deeply, looking away for a moment, thinking it over. He knew Ringo was right: if they wanted to still be a functioning band, they had to stop living in the past/future. Their music might suffer from it in the long run, and so would their relationship as bandmates. But it still felt as if he was saying farewell to his old music career for good this time. A final loss. It hurt him deeper than expected.

“Okay,” He relented after a while, ignoring the sinking feeling in his chest. “I guess we don’t have a choice.”

But to his surprise, Ringo’s demeanour remained tense and unsure. 

“What?” Paul frowned.

“You do realize we need to tell George, right?” Ringo asked in a small voice, as if he was scared of the words himself.

Paul froze, staring at him with a blank face. 

“What?” He eventually let out.

“You’re from the future. I’m from the future. John knows. George has no idea. You don’t think there’s something wrong here?”

As Ringo was talking, Paul started pulling a grimace, unable to stop it. He knew Ringo was right, but he still did not fancy having to go through the same ‘please believe I’m not insane’ process again. It made him weary just to think about it.

“I know he will have a hard time believing us,” Ringo continued gently. “But we owe it to him. He’s my best friend, and you love him too. He needs to know. If we want to be able to still be a group – hell, to still be friends – he _needs_ to know.”

Paul sighed, raising his arms in defeat, before levelling Ringo with a serious look. 

“I know, I know… just,” He started, trying to make his thoughts clear for both of them. “It might not be easy, you know? Just because John believed me doesn’t mean George will believe us too. Or that he will have a good reaction at all. You understand that, right?” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Ringo assured him. “We’ll be as gentle as possible. But even if it’s a shock at first, he’s smart. He’ll get around eventually.”

Paul nodded. He was not convinced, but he was tired of deciding for everything. Over the last months – almost a year now – he had had to weigh every single word he said, to study every situation to assess what information he could release or not, never knowing if he was making a mistake, if he was allowed to say more, to do more. He sort of craved the liberty to just let it go and let someone else decide what was right or not. And if Ringo was willing to decide for both of them on this specific point, he was relieved to just let him. He checked his watch; it was still early, but maybe they could grab some lunch at the canteen before the others arrived.

“Fancy some lunch?” He asked Ringo. 

Ringo nodded, looking relieved too. Paul realized then that this topic was hard for both of them. There were so many feelings and memories attached to the band that even if they didn’t take into account the monumental influence it had been on the world, talking about it and making decisions about it was bound to feel big. Critical. It felt a little like they were not allowed to mess this up. Not for themselves, and not for the rest of the world.

As expected, the canteen was empty of any ‘clients’. The cooks were barely finishing their first round of cooking, and Ringo and Paul were honoured with some very hot stew, so hot that they actually had to wait for a long while before they were able to even touch it. Being in the canteen seemed to calm Ringo a little, and as they chatted over their meals, he seemed more relaxed. Paul was too, in fact. All things considered, he found that he was rather okay with their decision not to record every song they remembered for the sake of it: in the long run, it would probably rid him of the stress of forgetting one song, or of doing something not the way it was supposed to be done. 

They had finished eating and were just chatting about Zak when George arrived in the room, all smiles and with a pack of drinks under one arm. They could hear other voices coming from the open door, amongst which Paul could recognize Geoff’s.

“Good morning!” George greeted them, surprisingly joyful (which seemed to be his default mode ever since Grace was born).

“What are you bringing us?” Ringo replied, pointing at the pack George was putting on the table.

“Schnapps. A gift from Pattie’s uncle,” George answered.

He proceeded to open the pack while Paul got up, bringing his and Ringo’s empty plates to the counter. Ringo got up too, briefly hugging George. Paul could understand the need to touch. George opened two bottles with a bottle opener he fished out of his pocket, gave one to Ringo, the other one to Paul and then put the opener back into his pocket and took the pack under his arm again. The whole action had been so quick Paul was left just baffled with a weird orange bottle in his hands.

“The others are going straight to the recording room, come on,” George told them. “We’ve all eaten already.”

Paul numbly nodded and glanced at the bottle, inside of which the liquid was lazily splashing when he moved it. It did not inspire him much. George left the room, Ringo following suit with his bottle in hand. Another voice rose from the corridor, and Paul was about to leave the now empty room too when John came in and pushed the door behind him in a swift motion, like a gust of wind personified. He was wearing Paul’s orange jumper, which was weirdly assorted to the bottle of schnapps. He quickly swiped the room with his eyes and with two steps he was on Paul and pecking him briefly on the lips.

“Hey love,” He whispered, his eyes shining brighter than the sun.

Paul found himself smiling like an idiot. He could only hope that at least he was not blushing.

“Hey,” He replied softly.

John showed to Paul the bottle of schnapps he had in his hand too. It was still closed.

“Officially I’m looking for another bottle opener,” He told him, looking very proud of his subterfuge. “I’m actually kind of curious to taste the thing.”

Paul snorted at that and pointed at the cabinet nearby with his own bottle.

“Try the cabinet.”

“My man is the smartest,” John winked at him.

Paul snorted again. As John was going to the cabinet and rummaging into one of the drawers, he decided to enjoy the quiet moment to share what was on his mind. He would probably not have the time nor the occasion to do it later in the day, and he really wanted to have John’s opinion on it.

“Ringo wants us to tell George about the future thing,” He told him quietly, observing his reactions. “He says it’s not fair not to tell him, seeing that you already know.”

Once he finally found a bottle opener, John turned to his schnapps, looking very concentrated on his task. His face remained blank, to Paul’s great frustration. After a few seconds of silence, he couldn’t stop himself from probing more from his boyfriend.

“What do you think?” He asked.

John raised his eyebrows and just sighed. When he finally met Paul’s gaze, he seemed to understand he needed to _freaking speak_.

“I guess our wise Ringo has a point,” He relented, suspiciously slow. “But I don’t really have a say about it, you know. Like… it’s your big thing, to Ringo and you. I’m just a bystander.”

Paul leaned a bit more into him, trying to convey through his eyes all the warmth and sincerity he had in him.

“You know that’s not true. You’re much more than that. I don’t know where I would be if you had not been here for me since I told you.”

John looked at him quietly for a while, his gentle eyes searching into Paul’s. 

“Ringo’s right. You should tell him,” He finally said, quiet.

Paul warmly smiled at him, and after a while John gave him a tiny smile in return, with a short nod. Paul took it as a blessing, and felt relief flood in him. John’s support meant everything to him, and he was glad to feel his boyfriend was sincere and not just humouring him. Just as he was about to finally taste his drink, John took a sip of his own and immediately spat it out.

“Jesus! What is that thing?!” He exclaimed with a grimace.

Paul watched him coughing it out in horror and looked at his own drink with suspicion – and a bit of surprise. Some masochisti part of him made him want to really taste it, now. At that moment, as if called by John’s revulsion, Ringo popped his head into the canteen again, with one hand on the door.

“Are you coming?” He asked. Then, lower, with his hand over his mouth: “Oh, and don’t drink the schnapps, it’s disgusting.”

“Too late, mate,” John grumbled as he was wiping his mouth. “Too fucking late.”

“We’re coming,” Paul told Ringo. 

As he sympathetically patted John’s back, he gave one last look to his bottle of schnapps before putting it carefully back on the table.

They had been playing for several hours already and despite all his best intentions, Paul could feel the mood of the room was turning a bit sour. They had worked on the same song – or more specifically, the same five notes – for a good while now and even though everyone for now had agreed to follow the direction Paul was convinced was the right one, things felt a bit off. John had asked him to try something different twice already, but it was hard for Paul to let go of an idea. He was sure it was the best way. And yet, something was ticking in his mind; George looked a bit grim, and Ringo kept throwing insisting looks in Paul’s direction. Even George Martin had come down from the mixing room to stay with them, offering little pieces of advice here and there. After a moment and another unsatisfying attempt, Ringo cleared his throat loudly and Paul took the hint – although reluctantly.

“Okay, George – what’s wrong? You don’t like it?”

“There’s not only George in the world, you know,” A nasal voice piped up.

Paul turned his head and found John looking at him with a raised eyebrow. He didn’t look truly offended, though. Just a bit—

“What we’re doing doesn’t sound good,” George categorically answered, ignoring John and bringing Paul out of his thoughts. 

“We can’t cut off anything,” Paul retorted with passion. “We said it needed to be rich.”

George pursed his lips, as if he was weighing his words in his head. Paul suddenly felt like he was slapped when a thought crossed his mind. Was it that hard to stand up to him…?

“I still think there’s too much,” George went on, careful. “I mean… we can’t hear anything. The bass is too loud, in my opinion. But I’m alright if we just mix the guitars louder later. I’m… yeah.”

Paul closed his tired eyes, throwing his head back to let the bones of his neck crack. He threw a glance at John, who was biting on his lip, hand on the chords of his guitar and gaze lost in the void. As if he had sensed Paul though, he looked up and met his gaze. The small smile he gave him made Paul’s heart flutter, even just for a second. 

Ringo, who had left his drums to stretch his legs, stepped closer to Paul to get one of the water bottles on the table next to him. Around them, two sound engineers were taking advantage of their conversation to try and fix the mics. George Martin was standing a little behind John, a finger on his chin, seemingly deep in thought.

“Could we… maybe, maybe we could try again with less bass, the way we did the first time?” Ringo proposed cautiously, looking at George, then at the producer, then at the two others. 

John just shrugged. George nodded quietly and bore his eyes into Paul’s. Paul knew that in the past, he would probably have been a right brat about that, going automatically to the conclusion that they’d be doing it to spite him. He breathed, tried to think without blocking everyone’s opinion out. The song was nearly done. It was a breath away from being perfect, from being right. And yet Paul could not quite put his finger on what was wrong in all the takes they were taking of that one specific part. After a moment, he had to admit they were not, perhaps, completely wrong: the song did sound a little too packed right now. Taking it upon himself and swallowing his ego a little, he breathed deeply and nodded too.

“Yeah. Yeah okay, let’s try that,” He agreed. 

If anything, the tiny grateful grin George gave him was definitely worth it.

They were taking a break. Ringo was sitting on his stool, eating an apple and taking a close look on his drumkit. Paul was on the piano, mindlessly caressing the keys in a soft tune. John, who was just arriving from the bathroom, came to sit next to him. Feeling his thigh next to his instantly soothed Paul but he did not divert his eyes from his fingers.

“What are you playing?” John asked. 

Paul shrugged. John scooted even closer and softly put his cheek on Paul’s shoulder. His now longer hair was lightly tickling him. When John turned his face to just let his lips rest against Paul’s skin, at the base of his neck, the latter immediately tensed. 

“It’s okay,” John assured him softly. “It’s just Richie.”

By reflex more than anything, Paul’s eyes swept the room and saw that indeed, there were just the three of them, Ringo being in the middle of adjusting one of his cymbals. He was not even looking in their direction at all. Relieved, Paul allowed himself to sneak his right arm around John’s waist and to drop a kiss on his forehead. John closed his eyes and took Paul’s right hand in his left one, letting them on his lap and enjoying the quiet moment of open affection.

Paul heard faint voices through the wall, approaching. He squeezed John one last time and let him go, John moving slowly away too. A few seconds later, George was entering the room.

“Do you lads want to have a drink at mine tonight? I feel like getting drunk,” He asked directly. “Patty and Grace are at her sister’s and I don’t want to stay alone. We could celebrate the new start of the recordings.”

“Sure, why not,” Paul replied amiably.

“Well, as long as you’re not inviting us just to get rid of your stock of bloody schnapps,” John remarked slyly.

George smiled.

“There isn’t any left.”

“Thank God!”

Paul chuckled as Ringo arrived too, resting his forearms on the piano. If he had noticed their previous position, he did not bat an eye about it and just smiled at them. Paul knew he knew and accepted them, but he couldn’t help the shot of relief cursing through him. Knowing and really knowing were two very different things.

“I’m in. But let’s not drag it out, yeah? I don’t want to come home too late,” Ringo said. 

“Are you serious?” George drawled, frowning.

“Yeah,” John seconded him. “I want to get smashed and you’re not stopping me, Richie boy.”

“Didn’t you say you had to wake up early tomorrow?” Paul asked John, slightly frowning when he remembered John mentioning earlier in the week that these days, he was the one bringing Julian to school in the mornings.

“Jesus, Paul, I’ll be fine. I can handle a few beers,” John answered in an embarrassed chuckle, suddenly moving the slightest bit away from him. “I’m not twelve.”

Paul glared at him but his gaze was quickly diverted when George and Ringo actually laughed too. He felt annoyance bubbling in him, but decided to file it away for the moment. Later, when they would have time to properly talk. 

Maybe.

“Paul,” Ringo said, sounding very serious.

Paul was standing in the kitchen, intensely focused on the petit-fours turning in the microwave. They were in George’s house, and as planned they were alone – just the four of them, for the first time in a very long while. It was odd, to be alone again, and it made Paul feel like a teenager invited over at a friend’s sleepover. Which, all in all, wasn’t that far from the truth. They were not doing anything special, and had barely even talked about the band. It felt nice, actually, to just find themselves together as friends and not as co-workers. It was rare enough that Paul did not really remember the last time it had happened. In his past, especially in the later years, those kinds of moments had vanished, replaced by bitter meetings with their attorneys.

For the present moment, Paul was charged to heat up the petit-fours they had bought on the way to George’s house while John and George were choosing some drinks from George’s stash. Paul had thought Ringo was with them until he had suddenly popped up in the kitchen too. Had Paul not heard him coming thanks to his clinking boots, he probably would have startled. Although Ringo could hardly be considered startle-inducing.

“Mmh?” Paul simply hummed in response, not moving his gaze from his mission, which was still slowly rotating.

“We should tell him now.”

“Tell who what?” Paul asked, distracted by the hypnotizing circular movement.

“George. About us.”

Paul finally blinked back to reality and turned a frown to his friend. He lowered his voice out of instinct.

“Now?!” 

“Yes! The moment is perfect. We’re just the four of us, no one to interrupt. We’ll have all the time to answer to his questions and—”

“And for him to yell at us, you mean,” Paul retorted, a bit cold. “He’s not going to be all curious, Richard, he’s going to freak out.”

“Yeah, I know, but we’ll all be here, yeah? We can support him,” Ringo answered, sounding hopeful. 

The microwave biped and Paul took out the plate of petit-fours. He was still frowning. He had not expected for that moment to arrive like that, so fast. He felt like he had not had time to prepare for it. They hadn’t even made a list of events to convince him yet!

“Paul, please. I can’t lie to him any longer,” Ringo pleaded quietly – he was probably sensing Paul’s reservations. 

Paul watched him silently. There was a genuine pain in his eyes, an ache for honesty. Paul could not have refused it to him even if he wanted to. 

“Okay,” He relented and Ringo lightly lifted clapped his hands together, excited. “But – But, if he freaks out, we don’t push, okay? He’ll need time. We shouldn’t all fall on him like a herd of cows on a… on a…”

Ringo simultaneously frowned and raised his eyebrow in an encouraging manner.

“…on a bottle of milk.”

At that, the frown won the battle.

“Cows drink milk?” Ringo asked, sounding genuinely curious.

Paul widened his eyes at him. Now he was not even sure what he was trying to say to begin with. He was, to be honest, a bit too drunk to keep track of every little thing.

“I don’t know,” He finally answered, a bit confused. “Whatever, you know what I mean.”

Ringo nodded (although Paul doubted he did know what he meant), and they both heard John’s and George’s laughter erupting from the living-room. Hearing them so cheerful, seemingly so carefree, sobered Paul at once. 

Ringo was right. Now was the time. Paul sighed deeply, nodded at Ringo and motioned at him to follow him back to the living-room, the plate of petit-fours in his hands. John was pouring what seemed to be rum into glasses George was holding. John’s smile was blinding, and for a second Paul was a bit stunned. Ringo stopped in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips, like a teacher of the 1930s asking his pupils to recite their poems. He looked at Paul, visibly expecting him to talk, but Paul merely blinked back at him, momentarily lost again. Why was he even looking at John? Had he not learned the power of the man’s smile yet?

“George, can you sit down, please?” Ringo blurted out, getting right into it.

George turned to him and nodded happily. He didn’t seem to have sensed the change of atmosphere yet. Paul looked at John and tried to signal him through his eyes what Ringo was about to do, but if anything, John’s confused expression told him he wasn’t making a great job of it. With a sigh, Paul went to sit on the couch and patted the space next to him, looking at John. John complied, though he went straight to the armrest, his left knee coming to softly caress Paul’s shoulder. The touch was light as a feather, and yet it still managed to make Paul feel more grounded. George took place in his bean bag, right in front of the couch, looking as carefree as ever. When Ringo went to sit on the couch next to Paul, he was nervously rubbing his hands on his trousers and then convulsively took the cup of tea he had left on the table earlier to bring it to his lips (although the tea was probably long cold now). Paul took it as a sign that he might need to take the reins of the conversation, at least at the beginning. He cleared his throat and looked straight at George.

“We have something to tell you,” He said simply, trying to remain calm and collected.

Immediately, George pointed his finger at John and Paul.

“You two are shagging,” He said, as if it was perfectly normal.

Silence fell upon the room. For a moment, they all just stared at him, dumbfounded. Paul’s brain was burning and incredulity mixed with fear invaded him. But also, a lot of confusion. They had all drank, already. At least several beers. Maybe it was a joke, and he didn’t really mean it? Maybe Paul was supposed to laugh it away? After a few seconds of general bafflement, he saw John’s eyebrows rising. His lips pursed, he turned to look at Paul, as if he was just expecting him to answer to that. Which did not help. _At all_.

“Oh boy,” Ringo murmured, frozen with his cup of tea against his lips.

“Come again?” Paul finally asked, his own voice sounding strange to his own ears. “We, um… what? Wh—?”

George just squinted at him, looking a tad less sure of himself.

“You’re not shagging?”

There was a second of silence during which Paul considered how to answer. Maybe if he just evaded the iss—

“Yes, we are,” John suddenly confirmed on a very serious, business-like tone.

Paul raised his arms to the air and turned to John, incredulous. 

“John, what the fuck?!” He exclaimed.

George was staring at them wide-eyed now and Ringo slowly put his cup back on the table, eyebrows high on his forehead. It looked like the last thing he wanted was to jump into the conversation. John frowned at Paul and pointed at George with a shrug.

“What?! He knows already!” He replied.

“Wait, you are?!” George echoed, disbelief and shock clear in his voice.

John turned to him, frowning hard too now.

“You just said you knew!” He accused him.

“No I didn’t! I mean, I thought you might be, but I legit thought you were gonna deny it!” George cried out, looking freaked out.

“Seriously?!” John let out, sounding a bit shocked and almost angry.

“Oh my God,” Paul breathed out, taking his hand into his hands.

Ringo patted Paul’s back and turned to George.

“Okay, that’s not actually what we’re here to—” Ringo started.

“Who’s fucking who then?” George cut him off, looking the perfect mixture between curiosity and repulsion. Then, he added quickly: “Wait, no. Actually, I’m not sure I want to know.”

George grimaced, thinking it over, and Paul raised his head, dragging his hands along his face. He wanted to teleport himself back into his home and not have to look at any of his bandmates ever again. How the hell could things go so wrong so fast?!

“Please tell me this is not happening,” He let out in a tired voice, talking to no one in particular.

“We’ll call you next time if you change your mind,” John winked, _literally winked_ at George.

Paul gaped and punched him in the arm. He definitely was not the only one to be drunk.

“Shut up you wanker!” He told him with a frown.

“Wanker’s the word indeed,” John chuckled, rubbing his arm, a dangerously amused glint in his eyes as he was looking at Paul.

George and Paul respectively pulled a disgusted face and a dismayed one.

“Oh my God just shut the hell up!” Paul shouted, looking at the ceiling.

“Yes, please, shut up now,” George said.

Ringo waved at George to get his attention back. 

“George, listen to me. Paul and I have something to tell you. It’s not about John. I mean, not really—” Ringo went on with a stronger voice.

“Hold on a second, you knew?! About them?!” George cut him off, outrage all over his features.

“Well, yes I did, but that’s not the point,” Ringo went on, sending him a dark look. 

George gaped at him, looking truly offended.

“And you didn’t tell me?!”

It was Ringo’s turn to look offended.

“It wasn’t my secret to tell! What kind of friend do you think I am?!”

Paul raised a tired hand between them in a futile attempt to divert their attention back to him. John, next to him, was tensely looking between George and Ringo as if he was assisting a ping-pong game. He was biting his nails.

“Alright, now you know, okay, that’s done—” He quickly glared at John, who merely shrugged in response. “—But let’s go back to the real conversation—”

“How is you two being gay not a real conversation?!” George exclaimed, looking truly lost and confused. 

“Why, do you have a problem with that?” John answered defiantly, turning squinting eyes to him.

His whole demeanour has suddenly turned defensive, and although Paul could understand it, his mind was screaming at him ‘_Not now. Not right now, please_.’

“John, you know he doesn’t—” Ringo started, trying to bring peace.

George raised his arms in a show of disbelief. He was obviously growing upset too.

“No, I don’t give a shit that you’re gay!” He blurted out. “It’s just… it’s just weird that you’re gay with each other, alright! I’m allowed to be a bit weirded out about it, ain’t I?!”

John opened with mouth with a frown, apparently not ready to let it drop, but Paul stopped him with a firm hand on his arm. This whole conversation was turning into a nightmare and he was getting seriously annoyed. And very much stressed out.

“Look, we’ll talk about the gay thing later, alright?!” He interrupted, loud. “Just listen for a fucking minute, for fuck’s sake!”

George froze, a little taken aback, and turned wide, slightly scared eyes to Paul. Finally. Paul noticed Ringo watching him so he nodded at him. Ringo was gentle, and he was George’s closest friend. He could trust him to find the right words. To deliver the news with more delicacy than Paul was capable of.

As if on cue, Ringo breathed deeply and turned to George. Then, he said:

“Paul and I are from the future.”

Okay. Maybe Paul had spoken too fast.


	46. Chapter 46

After a first few seconds of stunned silence, George burst out laughing. Ringo and Paul exchanged a worried glance. It wasn’t starting very well.

“He’s serious, you know,” Paul intervened, soft. 

“Yeah, that’s the best part,” George laughed, drying the corner of his eyes.

He looked up at John, seemingly looking to share the joke with him, but John only shuffled on his seat, a tad uncomfortable. The turn of the discussion seemed to have sobered him up as well.

“Is it the queer thing that’s made you all go mad?!” George joked, still obliviously laughing. 

“We know it’s hard to believe – hell, it’s impossible – but it’s true,” Ringo went on, visibly trying to sound convincing. “Something… magical, happened and Paul and I, we were in 2019, we were old and everything and suddenly we woke up here. We don’t know why. But not at the same time, though.”

Paul’s stomach twisted and his hands started fidgeting. George had a weird expression on his face, as if he didn’t know how to react between amusement, confusion and anger to supposedly be the butt of the joke. As he observed him, nerves were racking Paul, almost worse than when he had talked to John about it the first time. He had a bad feeling about this.

“Yeah, Ringo’s just arrived,” He added, a bit hesitant. “But I arrived here last December—”

“What do you mean? We all arrived together,” George cut him off, looking utterly confused now.

“It’s true, George.” John intervened. Weirdly enough, he sounded surer of himself and more determined than both Paul and Ringo. “They’re from the future. Last January Paul gave me a list of events that would happen during the year, things he could never have known otherwise, and they all proved true. They all happened. He knows things he couldn’t possibly know. It’s true, their souls are form the future and came back into their young bodies.”

Paul looked at him, at his serious face, his knitted eyebrows, his determined eyes boring into George’s. A weird yet warm wave of pride, gratitude and affection flowed through him. In only a few words, John had managed to say what Ringo and Paul had so much trouble expressing clearly. Paul had to force himself to stop staring at him to turn to George, who was frozen, silent and guarded. His dark and confused eyes were focused on John, and slowly turned to Paul, then to Ringo. 

“You’re all crazy,” He just said, his voice a bit faint. 

“We know it’s a lot,” Ringo explained. “But we’ll prove it to you. We know everything that will happen in the next 53 or something years. I mean, not everything because we are just humans, but, you know. And some things will probably happen differently because us being here probably created some butterfly effect or something, but most of them will. I mean, happen the way we remember. You’ll see. We’re not crazy. And John can prove it to you too.”

Seconds stretched into a minute, then two. Paul kept staring at George, who had now lowered his gaze. He looked deep in thought, grave. Nobody dared add another word; the air was electric, charged with tension. Paul wanted to speak, to explain better, to reassure his friend, but found words were blocked in his throat, unable to get out. His whole body was painful from how tense he was and suddenly, he wished they hadn’t said anything. When George opened his mouth to speak, Paul instantly knew it was not going to be good.

“Okay. I think you should all go home, now,” He said, slowly, carefully.

Paul stared at his blank face and slightly frowning eyebrows, and felt more than he saw John and Ringo exchange a glance. As they were all frozen, not reacting, George got up and brushed the creases of his pants away with his hands. His gestures were stilted, nervous.

“And I’m going to take a walk. Need to water the plants,” He said matter-of-factly, as if it had been his plan all along and the others were only keeping him from doing just that.

“It’s 11:42,” John noted with a raised eyebrow, pointing at the clock above George’s chimney.

“George…” Ringo started. 

“I don’t know what’s gotten into all of you,” George stopped him as he was quickly putting on the jacket he had carelessly left on the buffet, and his voice was a bit unsure. “But this is not as funny as you think it is.”

He took a few seconds for Paul to understand the layers under his blunt tone. The laughter in his voice had been replaced by something much worse: fear. Paul got up in a last attempt to stop him from leaving the room. He made sure not to touch him, though. He didn’t want to spook him even more.

“George, this is not a joke. Please, believe me,” He told him, desperately. 

George froze in his movements and looked up. They locked eyes for a moment, but Paul felt like he couldn’t get through to him. Whereas fifteen minutes before they were close as brothers, there were now brick walls between them – though they were cracked and trembling. In his eyes, Paul could see the vivid fear but by the time he was able to recognize it, George had lowered his head and pulled his car keys out of his pocket. 

“Whatever. See you tomorrow,” He just said. 

He left the room in a brisk pace and a couple of seconds later, they could hear the front door closing behind him. Paul slowly turned to the other two, who looked just as stunned and contrite as he felt.

“Maybe we came on too strong,” John noted.

“You think?” Paul snapped back, unable to stop himself. 

John threw him a sharp look and Paul shuffled on his feet, uneasy, before going to them and sitting back on the couch, leaning against John’s legs in a poor attempt to silently apologize. John didn’t lean into the touch, but he didn’t push him away either, at least. Ringo suddenly got up, as if the weight of what had happened was just then dawning on him.

“I need to stop him, I need to… I need to talk to him,” He started, blindly searching for his coat too.

“Let him,” Paul said in a sigh, looking at his friend with tired eyes. “We should just leave.”

Ringo stopped fussing and looked around the living-room with clear despair on his face. The sight saddened Paul, and yet he felt unable to do anything about it; the alcohol that he had drunk and that was now making his head spin was not helping either. He felt his arm being lightly pushed and turned to see John getting up as well, stretching his legs. Paul followed him suit, closing his eyes and rubbing his face once again. His body was tired and sluggish as if he had spent several days awake and fighting off sleep. A headache was already pounding at his temples. When he opened his eyes again, John and Ringo had already left the room and he could hear them in the entrance hall. He joined them slowly, feeling like his limbs were made out of lead. He didn’t pay attention to what the others were saying, and found that he had no interest in knowing what it was. He was angry, tired, and craved his bed. Craved to forget what they had just done and what consequences it could possibly have on their all of their futures. 

Ringo said something and patted him on the shoulder before opening the door and getting out of the house. John was arranging his scarf, and Paul vaguely registered that he was losing time to have some precious private seconds with him. 

“You okay?” John asked just as Ringo was closing the door behind him. 

His voice was not quite warm – he was probably still a bit disgruntled about Paul’s earlier snap – but he sounded like he genuinely cared about Paul’s well-being. Through his exhaustion, the thought soothed him a little. Paul shrugged, focusing on buttoning up his coat. 

“We’ll see tomorrow,” He settled on answering, a bit cold. 

“Make him a list. He’ll come around.”

“Yeah.”

“Hey.”

A hand suddenly landed on Paul’s shoulder and he looked up into John’s light brown eyes. 

“You were right to tell him. He deserved to know,” He told Paul.

He sounded so convinced that Paul really wanted to believe him, so he nodded with a tight smile that did not reach his eyes at all. John was about to open the door when Paul suddenly stopped him, sliding right in front of it.

“Wait – can you sleep at mine tonight? Please?” He asked him, feeling stupid to be so needy although his voice remained cold.

For a moment, John looked at him with a strange expression.

“You don’t have to beg me, you know,” He noticed, attentive.

Paul simply nodded, too uptight to react differently. On a sudden thought, he went swiftly back to the living-room. After a few seconds, he heard John following him. Paul took George’s telephone and started composing a number. When he met John’s eyes, the other man was obviously confused.

“Calling a taxi,” Paul explained with the phone on his ear, waiting for someone to pick up.

John pulled a confused face and showed the keys in his hand but Paul shook his head with a frown, pointing at the empty bottles on the table just next to them. John followed his movement and rolled his eyes but still sat back on a chair.

By the time the taxi arrived, they were both grumpy and hungry and George still hadn’t come back to the house. They could only see a light shining at the back of the garden. They didn’t dare try to find him before leaving, so they just left a message to say they had left their cars and wished him a good night. It was a poor goodbye, but Paul was getting annoyed and he couldn’t write masterpieces for every little thing of his life. The remnants of all the alcohol he had drunk was churning unpleasantly in his stomach and his scalp was itching (he did need to wash his hair). He was not in the mood.

On the ride back, they stayed silent, both sitting in the back seat. They were not touching each other, and Paul was turned towards the window, idly looking at the lampposts boarding the streets. His belly was burning and it took him a while to understand that he was angry. Sincerely angry. Angry at George for reacting like that, and even angrier at himself for not having handled the situation correctly. Things had slipped out of control and he hated it. He was supposed to be wise, to be careful. To expect things. To be fucking smart. He hated that his life had become such a complicated joke, and that the truth was the biggest joke of it all. 

Truthfully, he could not say he was surprised by how their evening had turned out. After all, they had done precisely what he had warned Ringo about: they had all fallen upon George like a hammer on his head. Not only had he ‘discovered’ about John and Paul, which assuredly had to be a little destabilizing, but he had been sort of violently faced with an impossible truth. No wonder the boy had chosen to go see his flowers. And he was mad at John for having blurted out their secret like that, without second thought. Sure, Paul had not understood George was simply guessing either, but still. John could have been more careful, more strategic. Choose a better time to come out and not just drop it all on their friend at once like that. Somewhere in his mind, Paul knew he was being unfair, but he was tired. Tired of being scared, of having to choose his every word and of facing situations the outcome of which he had no control over. As if he was just a shallow shell in his own life. The muppet of a cruel god. 

The taxi slowed down and Paul lifted his head from the glass. John was generously paying the driver, and for a moment Paul was confused as of why, until he realized he was probably buying his silence, too. It was a simple precaution, one they had all taken hundreds of times in numerous different scenarios, but it still pained him. The fact that this time, there was a slight possibility that this gesture was saving their lives, be it literally or figuratively, did not help his already sour mood. He got out of the car without looking back.

They both went up the stairs silently, Paul largely ahead of John. As he was turning the key in the hole, Paul could hear Martha whining inside. As soon as he stepped in, she jumped on him and licked his hands and his face, and Paul tried to contain her as much as he could as he gave her and Thisbe some food. He hated leaving her at the flat all day long, but he didn’t quite know how she would act in a room full of instruments, or worse – of engineers. He sort of followed his evening routine with the movements of a zombie, not quite caring about anything at all. He didn’t pay much attention to John, figuring the man was old enough to fend for himself. Once in his bedroom, he stripped down and slipped straight into bed. When he realized, after a while, that John had not followed him, guilt crept in him. He slowly got up and padded back to the corridor. He checked the empty living-room and went to the kitchen. He stopped at the archway, and felt suddenly very small.

John was sitting at the table, reading the newspaper. At first sight there was nothing much to think of it, but Paul soon spotted the tense line of his shoulders and the way his tight fist was holding his dishevelled head. Paul approached carefully, drew a chair and sat down too, right next to him. When John did not look up, it only confirmed his thoughts – John was mad at him too, now.

“You’re an arsehole,” He told Paul after a moment, still not looking at him.

As expected, his tone was accusing.

“I know,” Paul simply answered.

John lifted his head to turn the page of the newspaper and threw a dark look at Paul.

“I’m not some fucking bird you can toss around,” He went on, although he was not as fiery as Paul had known him. “It’s not my fault if things went to shite.”

“I know.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah.”

John froze and levelled him with a searching look. Paul could only look back at him. He did not even know how he felt anymore.

“Being mad at you is not funny anymore,” John suddenly said.

“Did it used to be?” 

John looked all over Paul’s face before answering. 

“Sometimes.”

Paul sighed and got up, the chair scrapping loudly on the floor.

“You can go home if you want.”

John kept looking at him before getting up too.

“No. I want to sleep.”

Paul nodded and went back to his bedroom, John following him this time. Paul pushed the door while John was stripping down and quickly petting Martha, lying at the foot of the bed. They both got into bed and just laid on their backs. Paul’s anger had subsided, leaving only emptiness in him. He turned on his side to face John. 

“I’m sorry,” He told him – and he meant it.

John turned his head to him. After a moment of silent observation, he leaned forward and kissed him on the corner of his mouth. Then he turned back around, turned off the light and snuggled into the comforter. Paul’s belly twisted once again. 

It only calmed down when a cold foot came to tangle up with his.

The next day, Paul woke up feeling tenaciously hungover. John was sleeping against him, his butt against Paul’s back, snoring lightly. It reminded Paul very much of their younger days, when they used to share tiny beds in crappy rooms. A tinge of nostalgia rolled in him at the thought. Despite the throbbing ache, his head was definitely clearer than the night before. As his consciousness awoke too, shame and regret concerning his behaviour slowly flowed in him. He had not been very gracious, most of all towards John, and the anger he had felt seemed suddenly pointless, laughable. What was he angry about? About George not believing them? How could he!? John was right, they needed to make a list, to be more tactful. Leave him the time he most certainly needed. Losing his temper would not change the situation, and now he could only blame himself for having drunk so much to start with. Alcohol was never his friend in tense situations – he should have known that.

Not wanting to let regret paralyze him, he shook his head and sent a quick look at his watch. They could not linger in bed for long, especially without their cars. He vigorously shook John’s shoulder, laying a kiss on his hair to lighten the blow.

“Come on,” He said to the groaning form. “We’re late.”

“Shhh, ‘m sleepin’.”

“Yeah, stop it.”

Paul got up and pulled on the comforter, which elicited more groans and earned him a frowning, sleepy face scowling at him.

After more convincing (or rather, some threats of leaving without him) John did get up and they both scrambled to get dressed and hail for a taxi outside. They were already in the car when Paul realized he had not properly kissed John since they had woken up, and the thought that he would likely not be able to do it for the rest of the day left him disheartened. The drive to the studio only heightened his melancholy when he remembered with a start that they were going to see George. They were going to have to work together, the four of them. And he had no idea what to expect, or if George would even show up at all. Actually, he wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t. Telling him the truth _right_ at the start of their recording sessions was decidedly not such a great idea. Would they even be able to work together? Would George want to?

They arrived at the studio right on time, and Paul was nervous. He scanned the faces of the people they met in the hallways in a futile attempt to gauge the atmosphere, but nothing stood out of the ordinary. Right before they entered the studio, John nudged him discreetly and Paul turned to smile briefly at him. There was no turning back.

As soon as he stepped in the room, Paul’s eyes frenetically searched around it to settle on a mop of thick dark brown hair. Paul’s heart was beating wildly, but once he recognized George, he found he could breathe again. George was turned with his back to them, visibly tuning his guitar. John and Paul both took off their coats to hang them in a corner. Geoff and a couple of electricians were working on some amps like bees in a hive. 

“Hello, young chaps!” John declared in a loud voice, bringing everyone’s attention on him.

Paul met Ringo’s eyes on the other side of the room, half-hiding behind his drums, and Ringo slightly shook his head at him, his lips in a thin line. Not a good sign. 

“Hi everyone,” Paul announced anyway. “Geo.”

George barely lifted his head and nodded at him but he looked distant, guarded. Paul tried not to take it personally. Time. He needed time. He met John’s soft gaze for a moment too, trying to draw strength and courage from it.

They all took their places, agreeing they should start working on ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’ – the only one they were for now a 100% sure they wanted to record. The morning went on relatively unperturbed. George was quiet, even more than usual; truth be told, he barely said any words, and did not try to engage even with the others. He just kept working, still as serious and efficient. None of them dared broach the spicy subject, and the atmosphere between them was a bit odd, as if they were all treading into unknown waters, but all in all, it was alright. There was no clear tension; George did not look like he was necessarily _mad_ at them, so that was a start. Paul had no idea what could be going on in his head, and he caught himself glancing at him numerous times as they were playing. Was he in denial, rejecting all of it? Or was some part of him, the part that led him to Buddhism perhaps, more inclined to believe them? Or at least to give them the benefit of the doubt? He couldn’t wait to know what he thought of it, but he knew he had to refrain. He could not overwhelm him more than they had already. 

After nearly four hours of non-stop work, they all decided to take a break (or rather, George Martin demanded they took one). As soon as his guitar was down, George took his packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and left the room without a look for any of them. Paul watched him go, his throat feeling tight. John followed suit, declaring he needed to hit the loo, and Paul felt powerless. Thankfully, he was soon diverted by Ringo who approached him while taking a piece of paper out of his pocket.

“Look, I made a list too,” He told him, unfolding the paper in front of Paul.

“Thank you,” Paul said. 

Relief sort of gripped him at the sight. At least one thing he didn’t have to take care of. He took the list and started reading it carefully.

“Abortion? Are you sure? Isn’t it, like 1969 or something?” 

Ringo froze and frowned at the list that Paul handed back to him

“You sure?” He asked Paul.

“I don’t know. I don’t remember, but I’m pretty sure it’s later.”

Ringo pursed his lips, pulled a pen out of his pocket and went to sit on the stairs to add some scribbling onto the list. Paul followed him and sat down too to keep reading above his shoulder. 

“You put Martin Luther King? That’s in more than a year,” He noted, a bit surprised. “I do hope he’ll believe us before that happens.”

“Well, better safe than sorry. Though we should make sure that that list doesn’t end up in the hands of the FBI or we’ll be in big trouble,” Ringo answered.

Paul snorted and kept on reading the list.

“You can add that homosexuality is decriminalized, too,” He told Ringo, trying to sound nonchalant despite his fast-beating heart.

“Oh yes, you’re right,” Ringo said, adding it without giving a blink about it. “Ok. I think we’re good.”

They both read the list over, and Paul could only agree with him:

1\. _Colour television! In July.  
2\. Abortion will become legal (Paul says it was later).  
3\. There will be a 6-Day-War is Israel.  
4\. Martin Luther King will be assassinated in April 1968.  
5\. Homosexuality will be decriminalized next year._

Sound of steps in front of them made Paul look up and John was there. He sent Paul a small smile before nodding at the list.

“Is that for our kid?”

Ringo briefly looked up and handed the list to him.

“Yeah. What do you think?”

John took it and started reading. Paul felt like he could almost read the words directly into his eyes – or through his glasses. 

“Martin Luther King is gonna be murdered!?” John suddenly screeched.

“Shhh!” Ringo and Paul said, lowering their heads by reflex.

Paul looked above the railing of the staircase to check that they were still all alone. Thankfully, they were. When he turned back to John, he was looking at them with clear shock on his face.

“What the hell?!” He continued, a bit lower.

“Yeah, by a single shooter,” Ringo specified quietly. “There’s nothing we can do about it, I’m sorry.”

John looked at him in horror, then back at the list in his hands.

“Jesus Christ…”

Acting out of reflex, Paul reached out to briefly pat his arm. John kept reading the list, his face clearly paler than it had been a few minutes before.

“You should add Walt Disney, like in mine,” He told them, still a bit shaken. 

“Oh yes, add it!” Paul confirmed.

“When did he die?” Ringo questioned.

“In December, near Christmas.”

Ringo obediently appended it, and took one last look at their list with an approving pout. John put his hands on his hips, deep in thought. Paul wanted to reassure him, tell him once again that the future was not necessarily bound to happen, but the words died in his throat. He couldn’t do it – not here, not now. 

“This time we’re really good. I’ll give it to him tonight. By some miracle he agreed to go get drinks with me,” Ringo told them as he was pocketing the list once again.

“Drinks, you say?” Paul simply said.

He couldn’t help the worry growing in him. He knew Ringo had a bad history with drinking too – although, when he thought about it, he had only seen him take one beer the night before.

“I’ll be careful, don’t worry. Water for me,” Ringo smiled at him.

Paul nodded, reassured. 

“Hats to you for having drawn more than two words from him,” John noted, impressed (Paul could tell he was trying to clear his mind from the news of Luther King).

“Oh, he only said one word, you know. Just ‘Ok’.”

“Maybe I should come?” Paul proposed. 

Ringo winced a little.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Don’t want to overwhelm him.”

Paul nodded again, trying hard not to take it personally. Somewhere in his mind, he knew Ringo was right, but it still frustrated him. He didn’t like it. Not knowing. Not _doing_ anything.

After a couple more minutes of silence, each of them being lost in his own mind, Paul stretched his back. He was closing his eyes with his arms linked in his back when John booped his nose with his finger like a 5-year-old would do. The gesture surprised Paul so much that a bubble of laughter burst out of him. He looked at John’s suddenly grinning face and retaliated with a poke in his belly, which made John curl into himself with a giggle.

“Could you not foreplay when I’m right next to you, thanks,” Ringo fake-pointedly said as he was getting up.

“Come on Ringoooo, don’t be a downer,” John replied with a big grin. 

Paul got up as well. They could already hear the doors of the room opening and new voices filtering in. John bit his lower lip and went back to them. Paul’s smile faltered a little as a small unease popped in him.

“Did that look suspicious?” He quietly asked Ringo.

Ringo frowned at him.

“I was joking, Paul,” He answered.

Paul chose not to push and simply walked away, going back to his bass. The others were already going back to their positions, including George. They picked up their work and from the moment music started pulsing in his veins again, nothing mattered anymore. His worries were dripping from him, pushed to a corner of his mind that was pointless for the remainder of the day. He loved the song, and was happy to see it come alive under his eyes once again. He had missed it, like so many of them. They hadn’t discussed which song they wanted to keep properly yet, but he knew it would be a heartbreak anyway: there wasn’t a single song he would be happy never to hear again. Well. Maybe not ‘Revolution 9’. But still. It was a question that was to be asked in the upcoming days, he knew it. He just hoped George would be open to talk about it sooner rather than later. 

It was only the next day, back at the studio, that Paul received some news on the George situation. He had arrived earlier than everyone, as per usual, and was alone and playing ‘Hey Jude’ on the piano when Ringo arrived. From the moment he saw him, the anxiety he had somehow managed to keep at bay all night came back in a knot in his stomach. Apart from the bags under Ringo’s eyes, Paul could not quite read his expression. 

“Hello,” Ringo said, putting his bag down against the wall and taking his coat off.

“So…?” Paul probed.

Ringo sighed and pulled up a chair to sit near the piano.

“He’s a bit shaken up. Doesn’t really believe us, of course, but he agreed that it does explain some weird things. He said at some point he thought you could have been abducted by aliens, so he seems quite open to the idea of time-travel. I gave him the list but it didn’t help much for now because he mostly freaked out about Martin Luther King too.”

“Yeah, we should have seen that coming,” Paul relented.

“I think he’s mostly upset that you only told John at first. Like, so many months ago,” Ringo went on, sounding a bit guilty by proxy.

Paul grimaced.

“Did you tell him I was freaking out, too?” 

“Yeah, but, you know. It’s still rough for him.”

Paul nodded, feeling sheepish. If he had known back then that Ringo would arrive and that they would have to tell George too, things would for sure have been very different. He tried to shake the thoughts away and turned back to Ringo.

“Do you think he’ll believe us?”

Ringo shrugged, leaning his elbows on the piano.

“I can only hope so. At least he didn’t call me crazy this time.” 

They heard noise coming from the hallways, and tacitly decided to drop the subject. It always came down to the same conclusion, anyway: George needed time. 

George arrived, after a while, and his face was already a bit more open than the day before. A little less pale. He even said hi to Paul with a smile, and Paul could only smile back as warmly as humanly possible. They started working on the song, and John – without surprise – arrived a bit late, bursting into the room with dishevelled hair like a teenager who would have forgotten to set their alarm. And forgotten their glasses back home too, apparently. George had a song ready too, and George Martin wanted them to record a Christmas tune, so they had the next few days of work sorted out. It was a relief for Paul. It left him more time to figure out which songs Ringo and he wanted to keep from the first version of the Sgt Pepper’s album.

The day went without any disturbance, and Paul was satisfied. They were working well, the four of them. Ringo seemed to be doing okay, and even looked quite happy to be back here with his boys. When John jokingly started singing ‘She Loves You’ in a baritone voice, Paul could not help singing it too, although he was laughing too much to get the words properly out. It took Ringo a couple of bars to get back into it, but judging by the emotional look on his face, it was throwing him back in time too. George rolled his eyes but the cheeriness somehow got to him and he played along, although he didn’t push it as far as to sing with them. It was nice, to feel like they were all together in this, and it left him hopeful for the future.

As the night was getting well settled in, they decided to call it a day. It was a Friday night, and Paul had planned to visit his brother the next day and to get lunch with Tara and his friends on Sunday, so he was quite looking forward to the weekend. They were all saying their goodbyes and going their separate ways when John sidled up next to Paul as they were leaving in the corridor leading to the exit. Paul was struggling to arrange his scarf around his neck.

“I have a proposition for you,” John started, sounding dangerously cheerful.

“Mmh?” 

“I want to take you on a date.”

Paul froze and sent a panicked glance to George, Geoff and Ringo a bit far ahead from them. They seemed to be too far to hear them, but still.

“Shh,” He scolded him with a low voice. Then, once the words truly got to him, he added with a disbelieving chuckle: “A date? With me?”

John raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

“Well I can go with Ringo if you prefer.”

“That is exactly what Brian asked us not to do,” Paul remarked with a frown.

“I admit, that’s sort of why I want to do it.”

Paul widened his eyes at him, a bit like he used to do when he would scold his children. But just like with his children, it made no effect at all.

“Come on, just one!” John whined, pulling on his scarf – and obliviously strangling Paul in the process. “I want to pick you up and take you out. Like a proper date.”

“Why do I have to be the girl here?”

“Tomorrow night. Me, you. London. Alcohol,” John listed, wriggling his eyebrows.

Paul sighed and chuckled, pulling his scarf away from John’s grip.

“You are such a child.”

“And you are literally a grandfather. Come on. It will do you good. And we’ll wear disguises if it makes you feel better. Like when you lived at your dad’s. Please.”

Paul looked at his big pleading eyes, then sent another glance down the corridor. The others had left already. He thought of the next day, of going back to his empty apartment. He realized his decision was made from the moment John had opened his mouth.

“Okay. But we’re going somewhere discreet, alright?”

John pumped his fist in the air with a big toothy smile.

“Of course!” He replied. “You know me. I’m the king of discretion.”

Paul smiled at his antics. Being with John really did make him feel younger every day.

It was Saturday night, and they were both slowly walking. He was wearing a deep blue scarf around his head, covering his eyes, and was guided by John’s safe hands on his shoulders, pushing him from behind. He did not really like it, the idea of walking blindly, and the fact that John had insisted so much on it only sharpened his suspicion. As per John’s promise, they were both disguised, though. John was wearing a long wig of dark hair, large square sunglasses over his real ones and purple overalls under his coat (Paul suspected he had borrowed them from Cynthia), which made him look like a weird female artist coming right out of her workshop. Paul had on the beard he had kept from _A Hard Day’s Night_, with fake glasses too and his hair neatly divided in the middle of his head. He was moreover wearing his dad’s old brown-check shirt (he had found it back at Jane’s place and just couldn’t give it away) with a pair of jeans way too big for him. He looked stupid, but hopefully far enough from his Beatle image to be recognized by anyone. 

After copious amount of chuckling and a few bumps into various objects on the sidewalk, John finally motioned him to stop and Paul heard him walk over in front of him to untie the scarf. Paul blinked several times, the lights of the street like knives in his irises. When his vision started to adapt a little, he took a look around the street but did not recognize it. They were in front of a bar, rather discreet. He did not recognize its name. 

“Shall we?” John asked as he was tying the blue scarf loosely around his neck.

There was a dangerous glint in his eyes, but Paul nodded anyway. The bad feeling in his head was overpowered by the excitation to be here, _outside_, with _John_. He had lots of pent-up energy to spend, and he was restless from the stressful week he had just had. Being here felt forbidden, and that only made it all the more exciting.

They both entered the bar. It was nothing extraordinary: cream walls, wooden tables and chairs, draft beer dispensers along the counter. There were few people, casually chatting among themselves or drinking on their own on the stools. Paul couldn’t help but feel a tinge of deception. He had expected their date to be a bit more… _more_. But at his surprise, John didn’t go for one of the tables and simply went further into the room, waving at Paul to follow him. When they arrived in the back, Paul saw another door, in front of which a man – a security guard, visibly – was sitting. The man looked them both from head to toe but said nothing, and that was apparently the reaction John was waiting for since he just pushed the door and went in. Paul followed, getting more and more confused.

As soon as they were inside the other room, loud music erupted in their faces, covering everything. There was a short staircase leading down into a very large room, with blue and purple lights floating everywhere, and countless bodies dancing to the music, some of them going to the other bar near the door. A nightclub.

“What do you think?” John shouted in his ear, a smile in his voice.

Paul looked around the room. Something felt off, but he couldn’t tell what. He stepped aside to let two men leave by the door they had just taken. They looked banal enough except for one detail: they were holding hands. Clarity barging into his mind, Paul looked around again and yes. There was no room for doubt. There were only men. 

John had brought him to a fucking _gay club_.

He turned to him with a deep frown.

“_That’s_ what you call discretion? Are you fucking serious?” He told him, loud to cover the music.

John pushed the sunglasses over his head (keeping the real ones in place) and rolled his eyes. 

“Calm down, Brian Jr. No one cares who we are, here.”

“What if someone recognizes us and decides to get some money from it?” Paul pushed on. 

He didn’t like it – having to play the police. To be the grown-up, the cautious one.

“They won’t! Relax, it’s just a club. The lights are low and you look like a logger anyway,” John replied. 

He sounded sure of himself and looked deeply into Paul’s eyes. And no matter how much he thought this was a bad idea… Paul wanted to believe him. He wanted to have fun, and not to worry about the rest of the world. He wanted to enjoy being here, alive, with John. He wanted…

“Babe,” John’s soft voice cut him off from his thoughts. “Please. Trust me.”

Paul stared at him and found himself nodding. John gave him a small smile and pointed at the corner of the room with his chin.

“Go find a table. I’ll get us drinks.”

Paul nodded again and they left their coats at the counter before parting ways. Paul got into the darker part of the room, and realized quickly that finding a table was not actually hard since most of the clients were wiggling on the dancefloor. The song they were playing at the moment was an oldie, some skiffle tune from the 1950s that Paul vaguely recognized. He went to the first free table and perched on the stool. As he waited for John, he could observe more specifically the other men in the room. A lot of them were young, even younger than him (or at least, younger than his body) but there was also a surprisingly large number of middle-aged men, some of them sporting incredible moustaches. It seemed like all the styles were reunited in one place, one secure cocoon where they could all be free and allow themselves to dance together without a care in the world. Paul had trouble feeling like he was a part of them, but he felt the emotion permeating the room. A craving for freedom.

John finally came back with two fancy cocktails in each hand and found him easily. He sat on the stool opposite Paul and Paul threw a cautious glance to his pink drink.

“What is that?”

He had to speak loud to even have a chance to be heard.

“I don’t know. I asked for a Sidecar but I don’t think he heard me correctly,” John answered on the same tone, looking down at his own pink drink with a perplexed expression.

Paul chuckled.

“I don’t think he did, no.”

John took a large gulp of his drink and immediately winced. He put the glass back down and shook his head as if he was trying to shake the taste away.

“Fucking hell, that’s strong. ‘M pretty sure there’s garlic in there. I’m gonna have the breath of a dead horse.”

Paul raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him, striving not to laugh.

“How romantic,” He noted.

He took a gulp of his own drink and couldn’t help but wince too. It was indeed really strong. Thankfully the glasses were small.

“I can be romantic,” John huffed.

“Yeah, sure.”

“I watched you in your sleep, once, back in your flat,” John suddenly started, smiling shamelessly. Then, miming his words, he added: “You had left your door open and you were sleeping on your belly, and your hair was falling on your forehead so it was flying when you breathed. It was very cute.”

“That’s not romantic, John. That’s creepy,” Paul retorted.

John burst in laughter and put a hand over Paul’s mouth.

“Don’t call me that! Tonight I’m… Nigel,” He somehow managed to hiccup.

Paul took his hand and pulled it aside.

“Nigel?”

“Yes, and you’re Raoul.”

It was Paul’s turn to guffaw like a kid.

“What kind of name is that?!”

John laughed again, before downing his drink and getting up. He extended an expectant hand to Paul. 

“Come on, Raoul. Let’s dance.” 

Paul looked at the room and furrowed his eyebrows.

“We should rather stick to the shadow,” He told him.

John frowned too, looking suddenly very sad. 

“Come on. We deserve it.”

Paul hesitated but John did not let him and simply grasped his hand to pull him towards the dancefloor. He shouldered his way into the crowd, his hand warm around Paul’s, until they arrived seemingly right in the middle of the room where he stopped and turned to Paul. Paul looked around him, expecting to find a hundred eyes staring judgmentally at him but… there weren’t any. No one was paying any attention to them, all dancing their night away and getting lost in the music. A smile appeared on Paul’s face. No one cared.

A new song started, and the first note was enough for Paul to recognize it despite the noise. He met John’s excited gaze and he knew he wasn’t alone. 

“Raoul!” John exclaimed. “It’s our song!”

Paul laughed, feeling even lighter when he saw that no one turned to them, no one pointed at them to yell ‘It’s your song! You wrote that one!’. In front of him, John started dancing like mad, jumping up and waving his arms around. It had no style nor coherence, but Paul found him beautiful nonetheless. When John turned around and flashed a bright smile at him, Paul found himself starting to dance as well. In seconds he was drenched with sweat and his beard was itching, but he could not care less. He was smiling so hard it was almost painful, and his head felt light, lighter than it had in months. When the chorus arrived, John grabbed his hand and made him pivot on himself, yelling the lyrics into his ears.

“Well my heart went boom, when I crossed that room, and I held his hand in miiiiiiiine!”

Paul laughed again, letting John guide him through his improvised dance routine. The music was vibrating through them, pulsating in their veins and turning their limbs into clouds. Paul squeezed John’s hand in his and shimmied all his might, not caring in the slightest how stupid he looked or if they were taking too much space, making too much of a show. John was staring at him, and suddenly there was only the two of them in the world. They were brilliant, invincible. 

_Since saw him standing there.  
Since I saw _him _standing there._

Around 4 in the morning, they finally got out of the bar, holding onto each other and laughing like lunatics. They were walking down the quite busy street and pushing each other like kids, completely forgetting who they were and where they were for a while. Paul felt euphoric: he hadn’t danced like that in a long, long time, and doing it with John only made the night more magical. They were passing a group of four older, rougher-looking men when John guffawed once again, his black wig flying around his face. His low voice made it clear he was a man, and when Paul met one of the blokes’ dark eyes, he realized quickly that that was going to be a problem.

“Shut up, faggot!” The man snarled at John, which made the other three chuckle drunkenly.

Paul ignored him, walking straight ahead, but he felt John’s steps falter and stop next to him. _Oh no_, was what crossed his mind. He reluctantly stopped too.

“Excuuuuse me, but my name is Nigel, not ‘faggot’,” John retorted with a weirdly loud voice.

He then paused, and intensely looked at them. When he opened his mouth again, Paul knew at once that nothing good was going to come out of it.

“And you look like a fucking pig, you fucking wanker.” 

It was as if everything was suddenly in slow motion. Paul saw the arm of the man rising, the chests of the three other blokes puffing up around him. John was dangerously close to them, way too close, and a flash of panic crossed Paul’s mind at the thought that they were going to hurt him. John was a good fighter and could largely hold his share in a brawl, but they were four and bulkier, and he was alone and drunk. Without thinking, the panic got the best of him and Paul jumped in front of him, trying to push John away from the fist of the enraged man. Fist which, of course, ended up right on his cheekbone. 

The second the fist touched his face, time seemed to go right back on track and faster than he could realize it Paul was on the floor, completely stunned. Some people around them gasped and screamed, and for a moment everything was blurry except for the intense pain blossoming on the left side of his face. He felt a hand taking his and pulling on it, and it took him a while to understand that someone was trying to pull him back on his feet.

“Paul, Paul come on,” A voice slowly filtered in through the fog. “Get up, please.”

He blindly obeyed, feeling like his whole body had turned both into jelly and lead. His hand still safely encased in the other person’s, he let himself be pulled through the crowd and could do nothing but ignore the people asking him if he was okay or what was going on. He had no idea either way. 

The person led him by the hand for a moment longer, half-running, and slowly Paul’s world went back into focus. He felt the fake beard that was starting to peel off from his face, the broken glasses on his nose, the sharp feeling of his breathing. He looked ahead and saw John guiding him to a quieter street and stopping in front of a closed jewellery shop. They both stopped, out of breath, and John let go of Paul’s hand. Paul bent over and put his hands on his knees, trying to find his breathing back. His whole face felt like it was burning from the pain. 

“Why did you do that?!” John demanded after a moment, his voice unusually high-pitched and trembling.

He sounded both upset and angry, and the question annoyed Paul at once. Getting punched was enough for one night.

“Because you can’t keep your fucking mouth shut,” He replied, uselessly trying to spit to get rid of the numbness in his inner cheek.

John scoffed.

“Why are you always doing this?! Doting over me like a fucking girl?!”

“Stop fucking saying that!” Paul growled in return.

But John kept pacing in front of him, gesticulating wildly. Beyond the clear anger, he looked scared. Trembling.

“I could take them! You didn’t have to play the hero and step in like that!”

At that Paul snickered, which only made the pain in his cheekbone more acute.

“There were four of them, you idiot! They were going to beat you into a pulp!”

“I don’t need your fucking protection, Paul! I’m a grown fucking man, alright! I can defend myself!” John shouted at him.

“Yeah well, maybe, but you obviously also have no sense of preservation, you fucking tosser!” Paul retorted just as angrily, a hand on his swelling cheek.

John glared at him, his chest still heaving, and ever slowly, Paul saw the anger fade away from him. His eyes softened, and he approached Paul to put light fingers on his cheek.

“Let me see,” He said.

Paul pushed his hand away, but John didn’t let it deter him and just gripped his arm to stop him. With a sigh, Paul lowered his free hand and let John feel his tender skin. He couldn’t help the wince that got out of him. After a moment, John lowered his hand, and his grip on Paul’s arm eased into a lighter hold.

“I’m sorry,” He quietly told Paul.

“Not your fault. I’m the one stupid enough to jump in front of a fist,” Paul grumbled.

John smiled at that and softly caressed Paul’s arm with his hand. As Paul was massaging his aching neck, John looked around them. Then he turned back to Paul to point with his chin at a little fish and chips down the road that was miraculously open. Half a dozen of people were queuing in front of it. 

“You hungry?”

Paul looked at the shop and nodded with a fragile smile. He actually was ravenous.

Once their purchases done, they went to sit on the porch of some house, their large clothes creasing with their movements. Paul started drinking his beer and eating his chips, his chewing making him wince a little. Seeing how sore his cheek already was, he would without a doubt have a nice bruise the next day. But despite the pain, he was so hungry that the meagre meal seemed wonderful to him. He gave his fish to John and let his gaze wander around them. The little square was rather quiet, with only a few customers in the bar ahead talking joyfully behind the open doors. In the dark of the night, the buildings all had the same grey colour, only brightened by the few streetlights. A wave of nostalgia embraced Paul.

“Doesn’t it remind you of Hamburg?” He asked John softly.

John glanced at him as he was masticating a particularly long chip.

“Mate, I’ve been thinking about it all night,” He told him once his chip was swallowed.

Paul hummed. On the first floor of the building right in front of them, there was a lightened up window through which he could see an old man sitting on his couch, watching black and white TV.

“Feels like a lifetime ago, now,” John added.

Paul looked down at his meal, diving a chip into the ketchup.

“Does it, for you?”

He could feel more than he saw John nod. He turned to study his pensive expression.

“So many things have changed,” His boyfriend expanded. “Feels like everything’s going faster and slower at the same time. Back then we were performing all the time, and I don’t remember sleeping more than 5 hours at a time, but… nobody knew who the fuck we were. And nobody cared. We were free.”

Paul let the words wash through him. He felt them, deeper than he thought he would. A couple came out of the bar nearby, the man helping the laughing woman to put on her coat. _Free._

“If you hadn’t arrived now, when would you have liked to arrive? I mean, if it hadn’t been last December?” John suddenly asked him, bringing him out of his reverie. 

“I don’t know,” Paul confessed. “Haven’t thought about it.”

John hummed, taking a gulp of his beer.

“I would have loved to see my mum,” Paul piped, the thought bubbling in his mind at the same time as the words were coming out of his mouth.

John nodded and glanced at him.

“Even after all this time?”

“Always,” Paul replied.

They both let a gentle silence fall upon them once again. They continued to eat, observing the people from the bar, and the families they could peep on from the lighted up windows. Paul kept thinking about John’s question, and was a little surprised that he had never asked himself that beforehand. Seeing his mum would have been beyond lovely; he had spent the last 64 years of his life missing her. But if he had gone back to before her death… everything would have been different.

“It would have been too risky, though,” He suddenly said, not quite realizing at first that he was talking out loud.

John frowned at him, half-chewing.

“What do you mean?”

Paul turned to him. In the dim light, John’s eyes shone brighter than the moon.

“Maybe I wouldn’t have met you,” He simply told him.

John watched him in silence for a while, until a small smile broke on his face. They finished their meal in a comfortable silence, simply watching life going on around them.

Soon after they found a free taxi and got in, sleepiness coming over them the moment their heads laid against the leather back seat. They had not talked about where they were going to spend the night, and when John gave to the driver an address he didn’t know, Paul did not immediately connect the dots. It was only when they arrived in front of a modest white house, seemingly empty, that he understood where they were. The famous house John had bought when he had left Paul’s apartment. 

The two of them got out of the taxi, giggling and struggling to actually walk straight. They were not tremendously drunk – they had only had the weird cocktail and the beer –, but all the dancing had left them feeling high and disoriented in the best way possible. John finally managed to open the door, though, and they both tumbled inside. They tipped off their shoes and took off their coats, not really caring where they fell, and when John lit up the entrance hall, Paul had the occasion to look around. 

It was a large corridor, leading to a staircase and what seemed to be a kitchen on the other side. The walls were all white, there barely was any furniture except for a chest of drawers and a coat-hanger. It strangely resembled John’s old house, back when they were kids, and the thought made Paul smile.

“How did you enjoy that date?”

Paul turned to John and shrugged, feigning casualty.

“’Was alright.”

John didn’t answer and just smiled. Then, he approached Paul in long, slow steps. Paul backed away, amused, until he hit the wall and just stayed there, one eyebrow raised. When his pelvis was finally brushing Paul’s, John stopped, carefully ripped off Paul’s beard and put one hand on the hall next to Paul’s head. Ever so slowly, he raised his other one to caress Paul’s arm, going up to his collarbone, his neck, then into his hair. Paul’s belly roared with arousal. His bruised cheek seemed like a vague souvenir.

“Can I still make it better than alright?” John asked him, staring directly into his soul, his pupils already half-blown.

“I don’t know,” Paul answered, surprised at how neutral he managed to sound. “What do you have in mind?”

John smiled mischievously and leant in, so close to his face Paul could literally feel the heat radiating from him, and the puffs of air from his nose. John softly brushed Paul’s jaw with his lips, breathing him in, and he briefly tightened his fingers on Paul’s hair just at his nape. He moved his pelvis a little, showing Paul how clearly hard he was. Paul squared his jaw, struggling not to show how much it affected him.

“I have a couple of ideas,” John replied with a small, smug smile, his mouth hovering over Paul’s. 

Paul’s lips parted in anticipation but John lowered his head again and started dropping the smallest kisses – just touches of lips, really – onto his jaw, his neck, the corner of his mouth. Paul raised his hands to set them tightly on John’s waist, desperate to touch, to _move_. His hips started moving on their own against John’s and he tried his hardest to still them. John’s smile stretched at that and he lowered the hand he had on the wall to caress Paul’s lower belly. Then, with the tip of his tongue, barely poking out, he contoured Paul’s lips, which only brought Paul to let out a deep moan. 

“Come on, man. Please,” He murmured hurriedly.

John leant back and raised a quizzical eyebrow. 

“Man?” He repeated, looking and sounding far too entertained by Paul’s suffering.

“Well you’re a man, aren’t you,” Paul ushered out in a breath. And then, knowing fully well the effect it would have, he softly added: “Love.”

John’s grin stilled a little at that and he glanced at Paul’s lips. His hooded eyes had significantly softened. Then, Paul’s favourite smile broke out: small, timid. Beautiful. 

“My love,” John whispered, with so much awe and reverence in his voice that butterflies exploded in Paul’s belly.

Paul smiled back, feeling his own neck and cheeks growing hot. John’s smile grew bigger and he finally leant in to kiss Paul’s mouth and Paul couldn’t stop the deep sigh that escaped him. His hands flew to John’s neck and he pressed himself closer and closer to him, trying to feel as much of his heat as possible. With one hand still securely holding the back of Paul’s head, John sneaked his other arm around his back to grip his waist, and it was just as if Paul’s clothes were gone already because he could literally _feel_ all of him. Their soft kiss slowly turned more heated, and when Paul tilted his head to deepen it, John moaned and Paul felt like he was about to consume himself. In a sudden flash of lucidity, he saw how much both of them were into each other, after everything they’d been through, and that realization somehow made him feel giddier, euphoric. This was John. His very much male and very much alive best friend John. And they were kissing! And it was incredible!

A smile erupted on his face, and John, _of course_, noticed it right away and pulled slightly back.

“What is it?” He asked with a happy little chuckle.

But Paul merely shook his head, sliding his arms fully over John’s shoulders, his hands slipping higher into his hair. The gesture made him feel briefly awkward, as if doing that somehow made him look like a girl (how many times had he seen his girlfriends do that?) but a second later the awkwardness was replaced with a fierce desire not to care. It felt right – who cared what it made him look like?

“Nothing. Just thinking that the date got a little better just now,” He answered with a grin.

John grinned back, his eyes shining bright.

“It’s not finished yet,” He told him, sounding cheeky like a little boy.

Paul raised an eyebrow again, and John’s hand went instantly up to caress it. The gesture was so tender, so visceral that Paul found himself leaning into him again and biting his lower lip. Spikes of pleasure rolled along his spine at the moans it elicited from John but John leant back and suddenly sunk to his knees, trailing his hands along Paul’s arms to finish on a firm grip on his hips. Paul’s breath got stuck in his throat, anticipation making his hands go numb. He looked at John, down at his feet, who was unbuttoning his pants and bringing both them and Paul’s knickers down in one go. When John looked up though, Paul was troubled by his long black hair. For a second, it felt like he had a girl about to suck him, and the sudden thought upset him. In a swift movement he gripped the wig and pulled it off John’s head, leaving the man all dishevelled. Paul took him in, and his wild heart warmed at the sight. A smile blossomed on his face. That was better.

With one last smile, John started on his plan and soon enough, Paul’s head was falling against the wall and his breathing had gotten incredibly quicker. His hands went blindly to find John’s soft short hair and he couldn’t stay still, perpetually hesitating between letting his eyes fall shut from the overwhelming pleasure or looking at the gorgeous man in front of him. It was too much for one person, but it was also not enough.

Scrambling over himself, Paul grabbed John by the armpits and lifted him up, finding his mouth as soon as John was standing on his feet. When Paul pulled back, he looked a little confused.

“I need you to fuck me,” Paul explained in a breath.

John gaped, staring in awe at him.

“Am… oh. O-okay,” He stammered while nodding frenetically.

Paul smiled at him and that prompted John to move. John took his hand and led him quickly up the stairs, straight to the bedroom that was just as poorly furnished as the rest of the house. Once inside, John immediately started taking off his clothes and Paul followed suit. In a matter of seconds they were both naked and grinning at each other, but from the moment they fell back into each other’s arms and onto the bed, there was no room for humour anymore. 

John took hold of Paul’s hands to pin them above his head, taking his time to kiss and lick all over his chest as if that was the last time he could ever do it. Paul was squirming, barely managing not to resist and to just flip John over. It was strange to follow his instincts when his instincts went against his oldest habits. When John let go of his hands to grab his legs and prop them over his shoulders, Paul went pliantly. Once again, he couldn’t be happier to be back in his young and flexible body. Heat was burning him alive, and arousal was throbbing in his head and in his lower belly. He clenched his hands on the sheets before opting to take a hold of John’s arms encasing his head instead. John’s fringe was bouncing in front of him as he moved, and for a while it was all Paul could see, pleasure tuning everything else off. He ended closing his eyes and right after John leant forward to kiss him again, deeply, messily. They were both breathing heavily through their noses, dripping in sweat and grunting so loudly, so evocatingly that were he more aware of what was going on around him, Paul would have prayed that no neighbour was awake.

When the tension finally reached its peak, Paul froze, pressing the pad of his fingers so deeply into John’s skin he was sure to leave marks. Soon after John joined him, gasping for breath, and lost no time to find Paul’s lips again and to kiss them softly, so sweet it made Paul want to laugh and cry at the same time. Emotions were bubbling in him and laughter finally won. John gently lowered his legs and went to lie against him, slipping an arm under Paul’s head to bring him closer to him. When he noticed Paul was laughing, he started chuckling too and dropped a light kiss on Paul’s already blue cheek.

Paul turned to him, his cheeks hurting from smiling so wide. He struggled to find enough breath in him to say, ultimately:

“Well. That was one hell of a date.” 

“You’re still sleeping at mine tonight?” Paul asked as he was buttoning up his (John’s) shirt.

“Yup.”

Paul finished up the last button and slipped on the tweed jacket. The sun was peeking through the window and bathing the room into golden reflections. They had slept a little later than Paul had anticipated, especially since he needed to stop at his home before going out for lunch, but he had needed the rest. He had found, not so surprisingly, that he always slept better when John was breathing right next to him.

Once he was finally all dressed up with John’s clothes, he turned around to face the bed, opening his arms to show all of himself.

“How do I look?” He asked with a toothy grin.

Still cuddled under the covers, John gave him a sleepy smile.

“Stunningly gorgeous.”

“Jesus, could you be any gayer,” Paul snorted. 

“Well, you asked.”

Paul laughed and walked back to John, bending to kiss him softly. John used the opportunity to caress his jaw and hum quietly into the kiss.

“See you later,” Paul smiled softly over John’s lips before standing back up. 

He was about to go down the stairs when John’s voice reached him from the bedroom.

“Kissing me is very gay too, you know!”

Paul laughed his whole way to the car.

The ride back was quiet, peaceful. Paul felt good and couldn’t tame the smile taking up his whole face. It had been an incredible night, and he couldn’t even grasp how stupid he would have been not to agree to do it. John was right; they deserved it.

He entered the building hall, stopping to get his mail. When the glass doors creaked he quickly glanced at who was coming in and recognized the middle-aged couple from the apartment across his, the Middensons. They were quite discreet but they were always sending him kind smiles, and they always had nice chats in the hallway when they met one another, even if he hadn’t seen them in a while. They had even given him strawberries once. They had a 12-year-old son who loved the Beatles and was always star struck when he saw either Paul or John, so Paul had offered to give him posters from their last tour – which he still hadn’t, since he kept forgetting.

“How do you do,” He said with a nod and a smile.

“Hello,” Mrs Middenson abruptly answered.

Her husband remained silent and just gave a weird look to Paul. It was a bit unusual but Paul didn’t let it deter him.

“Oh, Mrs Middenson, you can tell Matt I finally have the posters, I can pop in in five and give them to him if he wants,” He told her with a smile as they were passing him.

She stopped and turned to look at him with a weirdly scandalized expression on her face. Mr. Middenson turned around too and put his hand on the small of his wife’s back to place himself in-between Paul and her, as if Paul was a sort of a menace. 

“No you won’t, and I don’t want you queers near my wife or my son ever again,” He harshly growled. 

Paul froze, a sick icy feeling dropping low in his stomach. Mr. Middenson approached him and pointed a threatening finger to his face, making him recoil a little bit in spite of himself.

“Nobody wants to listen to your fucking faggot music, you hear me?” He continued in a whisper, as if he was even ashamed to have to say these words out loud. “You make me sick.”

He took his wife’s arm and with one last glare, they both disappeared up the stairs.

Paul just stood frozen in place, staring into the void. He was breathing so hard it felt like his lungs were burning and he could hear his heart beat loudly in his ears. After a few moments, he swallowed with difficulty.

He went up to his apartment, feeling strangely void and light as a feather. He opened the door, got inside, put his keys on the little table in the hallway and stood for a couple of seconds there, not quite knowing what to do. Martha was jumping around him, trying to get his attention, but his attention was lost in the void. Then, without any warning, a strong nausea came over him and he had to rush to the bathroom, just in time to throw up the little in had in his stomach into the toilet.

He stayed a long time kneeling on his bathroom floor, wondering how the hell he was supposed to live in this world.

He went to his lunch with his friend. He managed to smile, to chat, to joke. He looked normal, and they had a nice moment together. There was a darkness growing inside of him, a fear he thought he wouldn’t have to feel again, and he tried his best to ignore it. Push it as far away inside of him as possible. He could not let it affect him, it was a luxury he couldn’t allow himself. No one had to know. 

No one had to know. 

When the lunch dragged into an afternoon at an art exposition, he welcomed the distraction with opened arms. John was coming to sleep at his place that night, and the last thing he wanted was to stew alone in his own flat long enough for his boyfriend to see how much of a mess he really was. They were happy together, and they deserved it. He didn’t want to ruin it, no matter the cost. 

He finally got home though, and managed to keep himself busy making music until his bell rang. John was smiling, warm and soft, and he smelled so good that the minute he entered the apartment, Paul knew he was right to keep it to himself. John was too precious. They dined together, talked about the exposition Paul had seen and how Julian was now able to correctly use the future tense. It was simple. It was so simple between them that it seemed incredible to Paul to remember that a few months prior, they couldn’t even talk to each other without stuttering out banalities and trying to cut the conversation short. They had really come a long way. And to think Paul had first thought fleeing to France was the only solution…

They were both in the bathroom, having taken their shower together, and were quietly preparing to go to bed. His hair still dripping on his forehead, Paul finished putting on his pyjama t-shirt and leant against the wall.

“Can I ask you something?” 

John hummed, still brushing his teeth. 

“You know, last year when I had my concussion and you drove to my father’s house?”

John hummed again, bent over the sink.

“Why did you do that?” Paul asked. “I always wondered. You hate driving and it was an awful long drive for you. Did you have like, a plan? Like you were supposed to go to Liverpool or something?”

John spat in the sink, rinsed his mouth and met Paul’s gaze through the mirror.

“Not really, no. You were just not feeling well and you were my friend, so I came. ‘S normal,” He finally shrugged, taking a towel to dry his face.

“No it’s not, it was fucking far. And I was being a total dick to you. Even before you came,” Paul frowned, crossing his arms.

“Yeah, sure. Guess I was too in love to care about that, though,” John casually answered, struggling to put the towel back into place. 

He finally managed and passed by Paul to get out of the bathroom, ignoring him as if everything was normal. Paul stood frozen, his mind reeling. _Wait… what?!_

He followed John to the bedroom. The other man was carelessly opening the bed, as if he hadn’t just dropped a bombshell on Paul – even though Paul could tell from the swiftness of his movements that he was not exactly as confident as he pretended to be. Paul waited for him to turn around, but when he didn’t, he lost his patience. 

“You _what_?” He finally asked in a high-pitched voice.

John, already half-under the covers, looked at him with a carefully blank face. 

“I’m in love with you,” He stated on a level voice.

Paul just gaped at him, his brain short-circuiting. 

“Oh come on, stop it.” John went on in an awkward chuckle, looking away. His voice was slightly wavering – probably from nerves. “You’re not _that_ surprised. As if you hadn’t picked that up right from my whole freaking speech in Tokyo. Or from the dozen other times I tried to tell you.”

“That’s different,” Paul defended himself with a frown. “That’s not… I mean, you hadn’t said that. You know. Not… not _that_!”

John just laughed a bit awkwardly, at the peak of his unhelpfulness. He fluffed out his pillow and patted the space next to him. But Paul was still frozen on the doorway when another detail dawned on him.

“But wait, wait… my Dad’s house? That was like a year ago!”

John stopped his patting, squinted and then smirked at him.

“You’re trying to make me say since when, aren’t you?”

Paul shuffled on his feet, feeling his face grow hot.

“…No.”

John kept staring at him and his smirk turned into a full beam.

“You are! You insecure bastard.”

“Okay, okay. Yes, I would like to know, yes,” Paul admitted with his hands up, blushing to his roots and avoiding John’s mirthful eyes. “Since when, then?”

John hesitated. 

“I don’t know.”

“Oh come on!” Paul groaned.

“I don’t, Paul! Sorry I didn’t like, _keep tabs_ on it,” John laughed. “And it’s not like I was fully aware of it all the time.”

“Are you serious? Come on, tell me!”

“A long time, okay?!” John laughed again, and Paul was happy to notice he was blushing a deep red too. Fucking finally.

Paul came closer to the bed, feeling a grin pulling at his lips too.

“How long?”

“Stop it.”

“John.”

They stared at each other for a long while, their eyes shining. Both ready to burst out laughing (even just to evacuate all the embarrassment) but neither ready to give up yet.

“A _long_ time,” John repeated slowly.

“Since you met me?”

“Oh fuck off, don’t get cocky now.”

Paul laughed and crawled on the bed to stop in front of John, pulling on the covers to annoy him.

“Tell me! Tell me tell me tell me tell me tell me...”

“Jesus…!”

Paul was now shoving covers and pillows over John’s face, delighted to see his hair getting mussed up and his cheeks getting redder by the second. He stopped a second to let him breathe. He was not that cruel. John looked down to Paul’s hands, his smile freezing and a pensive look taking over his face.

“Do you remember that time you stayed at home the whole day and my mum tried to make us a mince pie even though it was the end of April and it was scorching hot outside?” He reminisced quietly. “She had put too much spices in it and it was overcooked, and the thing was honestly barely edible. I couldn’t stop laughing and mocking her about it. But you… you ate that… that _giant_ slice, and your face was so red you were almost fuming but you ate the whole thing and told my mum it was delicious. And the worst thing is, you _meant_ it. I couldn’t even taste the fucking thing without wanting to barf and you just. You just ate it. Said it was delicious with that bloody smile of yours. She was so happy.”

Paul actually remembered that day, even if the details were kind of fuzzy in his mind. It had happened in 1958, more than eight years prior.

He had not even been 16 yet.

“John…” He started, feeling suddenly choked up.

John avoided his eyes, giving him a small shrug.

“Yeah. I mean, I did not understand what it was right then, of course. But I think that was pretty much it for me,” John finished on, vulnerability clear as day in his eyes.

Paul stared at him and in that second, he had never seen anything more beautiful in his life. He leaned closer, gently took John’s face between his face and kissed him with all the love he was capable of, pushing him down on the bed. Snuggling as close to him as he could, he wanted to melt into him and to never have to leave his side ever again. When John leant back, kissed his cheek and whispered ‘I love you’ in his ear, he felt like it was possible.


	47. Chapter 47

_Paul was in a room that was both empty and full of instruments that he could not recognize. There was music playing somewhere, but he could not tell if it was in his head or in the building. He was trying to play the bass but there was tape all over it: he tried to take it off, but the more he did so the more tape appeared. Someone was talking to him. Seeing it both from above and from his own eyes, he turned his head and saw John, standing next to him and watching him. Paul could not understand what he was saying, and kept asking him to explain, to repeat it, but John’s face only grew dimmer, sadder. It was incredibly frustrating but Paul realized he was laughing, even though he did not really know why. Shouldn’t he be crying? He was about to ask John what he should do when he realized John was gone. All of a sudden, Paul was alone in the empty room. His bass was gone too, and suddenly he was no longer sitting and just standing there, in the middle, in black clothes. He watched himself go to the door and open it: behind it, there was a sea of red, and Paul knew at once that it was blood. He walked into the room and the blood licked his clothes without really touching it, without colouring it. The more he walked in, the more the blood rose though, and soon enough Paul was nearly drowning in it. He started calling for help, yelling John’s name but nobody was answering. Suddenly, it hit him. _

_It was his children’s blood, and he was all alone._

Paul woke up gasping and trembling. He was alone in the room, which was plunged into darkness. Thisbe was lying next him, practically under the sheets, and was watching him with curious eyes, her tail wagging lazily. Paul petted her absent-mindedly, trying to find a regular breathing back. A chill ran through his back and he noticed he was drenched in sweat. A look to his watch told him it was nearly 11am already, which was extremely late for him. He could not remember when he had fallen asleep, but it did not feel like he had slept that long anyway. 

Aching all over from the anguish of his nightmare, he got up and slipped on the first jumper he found. His notebook was lying on the bedside table, as usual, and it didn’t take him long to write his dream down. It was not new; he remembered having dreamt something similar once before. Shaking himself out of that weird longing state, he padded into the corridor straight into the kitchen. His stomach was rumbling. 

A mop of unruly auburn hair and a bent over back warmed all of him the second he stepped into the kitchen. John was sitting back to him, apparently staring out the window and nursing a cup of tea between his hands. He was fully dressed, with a newspaper open in front of him. Paul smiled at how soft he looked and approached him to encircle him with both arms, tucking his head into his neck and breathing him deeply. John did not react at all, although he was pliant in Paul’s arms – he had probably heard him coming. Finding his absence of reaction a tad strange, Paul let him go and went to the tea pot to pour himself a cuppa.

“Didn’t hear you get up,” He told John, glancing at his soft yet tired face. 

As suspected, his gaze was lost towards the window. When he answered, only his mouth moved.

“You were sound asleep.”

Paul hummed, focusing on his tea. It was still warm. He turned back to the table to sit in front of John. There were cold toasts sitting in a plate, and a jar of apricot jam left open so he started on his breakfast with dedication. It was late, but he was starving.

“I thought we could make Ring come up this afternoon to see which songs he wants to keep from our past,” Paul started. “Make sure we’re on the same page. We can talk about it with George when, you know. When he wants to talk. But I thought it could help to see with Ringo first. I mean, if you don’t mind…?” 

John turned his eyes to him, and put his cup down on the table, still holding on to it.

“Yeah, sure,” He answered – but his voice was off, distant.

Paul looked up with a worried frown. 

“You okay?”

“Yeah yeah. Just tired,” John said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

Paul looked at him a bit longer, but when John looked away to sip his tea again, he decided to let it go. It had been a tiring week indeed, and himself felt the exhaustion still pulling at the back of his eyes, straining the tendons of his limbs. Sometimes, it felt like he had spent the last ten months feeling more tired than he had in his entire life. So he munched on his toast, the simple food delicious for his empty stomach. When he looked up at John again, took in his dark circles, his freckles and his pink lips, he sighed in contentment. John was here, they were alright. They were safe. Nothing could touch them inside these walls – no threats, no harsh words, no sad realities. They were in a cocoon, together, and Paul was dead set on enjoying it as much as he could. 

When their breakfast was over, they both got up to clean the table and get prepared for the day. Paul tried to call Ringo and left a message when he ended up going to voicemail – in those moments, he missed being able to just text people. John was strangely silent, and Paul stopped himself from pestering him about why the whole morning. He didn’t want to appear annoying, or too insisting. John’s words from their date saying he was doting over him like a girl were still echoing in his mind, whether they were true or not. Somewhere, he knew it was a spineless sexist remark, probably homophobic too, but still. He could not help but feel a bit weird about it. After all, he still wasn’t quite used to this. To being a man’s boyfriend, to having to behave as a homosexual. Was it a thing, though? Was he supposed to behave any differently? So far, he didn’t feel like he was acting differently from the way he had been with his wives and girlfriends. At least, not consciously. Sure, he was a bit less natural about it. Gestures of affection didn’t come as naturally. Or more accurately, he tended to second guess every little thing he did. Always wondering if things made him look too feminine, or too gay – however absurd the concept was. 

He had never questioned his own manhood before, and now it felt as though he needed to redefine it, which, all things considered, did not make much sense. He had not changed. Not really. He still was the same man, who just happened to date and care deeply about another man. It didn’t make him any less of a man, he knew it. Gay men, or bisexual men – which was his case probably – were still men. Obviously. But he still felt weird. Being with John was both as simple as breathing and terribly hard. In all his love relationships, it was by far the one he had to work the most for, the one he had to fight for every day. Fight to protect it, to make sure its loam was strong enough to see it blossom. And it could blossom into something truly magnificent, he could feel it. It was already beautiful, and it had only been a few months. Hell, they had only been on one date! It was crazy to see how quickly John had gotten under his skin, and seeped into every little part of his life. How just looking at the man now made him feel all warm and squishy, like a true lovesick teenager. It was exciting, but also strangely appeasing. Because it was John, and he knew him better than anyone; on some very specific level, he knew him better than he had known any of his wives, and that made their relationship all the more special. It was as if being his lover was the only step on the road to knowing him that he had not taken yet, and now that he had, their connection was… complete. As corny and cheesy as that could sound. 

His head filled with thoughts about John (and he was here! In his apartment, minding his own business like in a normal, regular couple!), he got dressed to go out for groceries. John ate like a bird these days – and Paul truly hoped his eating habits wouldn’t tend on the disorder side like they had in his past – but Paul was finally finding some appetite back. Plus, if Ringo was to come with them, he needed to be able to feed him. 

“I’m going to the shops, won’t be long!” He announced.

Just as he grabbed the doorknob, he was stopped by a hand on his arm. He turned around and soft lips landed on his, taking him by surprise. His eyes fluttered close and only reopened when tender fingers caressed his cheek. John was staring at him, intense. Without a word, he looked at Paul’s lips and lightly touched them with his fingers.

“Sorry. I love your lips,” He whispered.

Paul smiled in return, quickly squeezing John’s hand in his. His belly had turned to jelly.

“I’ll be quick,” He told him.

Not letting himself time to think (and for sure fall into John’s arms) he promptly left the flat. He stopped for a second on the doorstep to make sure he had taken enough money on him, and just as he was ready to go, voices floated to him and made him freeze. He recognized his neighbours’ voices straight away, and dread filled him at once, but a quick glance around assured him he was alone on the floor. He listened for a moment, and realized the voices were coming directly from inside his neighbours’ apartment. It was funny, how he could perfectly distinguish every word they said, as if they were right next to him – he had never noticed how bad isolation was from the hallways. Just as he started going down the stairs, realization hit him like a fret train: if he could hear them inside their flat, _they could hear him inside his too._

The whole encounter of the day before suddenly made much more sense, and everything seemed clear: they knew about John and him because _they had heard them_. God only knew what they had heard exactly, but it could only have been explicit enough not to let any room for doubt. Or at least, explicit enough to convince them of it. Of all things, Paul had not expected his own flat to betray him. Seeing all the precautions they were taking, the fact that something as trivial as the thickness of his walls being the cause of his misfortune was almost laughable. He wondered if he should tell Brian about it, but once again found himself reluctant to the idea. He knew what Brian would say: move out, deny the rumours, avoid John for a while. He did not want to do any of that. He had spent so much of his life being cautious and mindful about what he let out to the public that he found he was sick of it. He wanted to avoid having to lie as much as possible. And he loved his flat; moving into it had helped him accept his new reality, his new life, and he felt strongly attached to it, even though it was probably stupid to care so much about a location. 

As he was getting to his usual shop, thoughts and fears twirled in his head. He was not paranoid and did not expect his neighbours to actually go and tell people about them, but the idea that they were so adamantly rejecting of what they were did not sit well with him and left him with a bitter taste in his mouth. Maybe the letter was from them – although he doubted it. He had no idea who could have sent it to him. The mere supposition that it could be from someone he knew made his head ache. It was probably just from someone hoping to get some kick out of scaring him, but the truth was, it worked. He was scared. 

Trying to shake the thoughts out of him, he went on with his groceries, mindful to take things John liked too such as bacon and chocolate. He wanted to cook him dinner. And to watch a movie with him on the couch, snuggled into blankets. And to go to exhibitions, and parks. Show him Léchelle and the French countryside. And bring him to the sea. He wanted to swim with him, and to lounge on the sand until they would be red as tomatoes. Hell, he even wanted to build sand castles with him. He wanted to build him a house, with a cosy library and good lighting to protect his eyes. Just imagining all of that was enough to make the time fly and to put a smile on his face. There was a lot of things he wanted to do with him. He marvelled a bit at the intensity with which he wanted it, deep in his guts. As if all those simple things, that he had actually already done with John before, now took on a wonderful new meaning and held on the secret of peace and happiness. How the tables had turned, huh?

Without surprise, the conversation of the night before ended up sneaking back into his memory. He couldn’t get John’s confession out of his mind, and it left him a little uncomfortable, confused by his own feelings and emotions. He was torn between the elation to be loved and the horror to have never known in the first place that past John had been in love with him, at some point. It was utterly heart-breaking. He’d read some of the conspiracies and theories about him, or rather the two of them, alright. He had seen some ambiguous videos and knew how some people read a whole secret love story into their every interaction. He had never thought much of it, though. He knew what his relationship with John was and was actually the only living person able to judge it. He knew a lot of people believed John to be at least bisexual. John himself had practically confessed it on several occasions. There had never been official, undeniable proof, but still, he wasn’t daft. He knew how suspicious some things looked, or some answers sounded. And yet hearing about it and vaguely acknowledging it was very different from actually _knowing_ it. 

John was in love with him – had been for a very long time. The same John who had beaten Bob Wooler to a pulp for hinting he was gay at Paul’s 21st birthday. The same John who had kept chasing girls their whole youth. The same John who had gotten married ten days after Paul did in another life and had called Linda ‘not that attractive’ – maybe out of pure spite, or even jealousy, he now realized. _That_ John had been in love with him nearly the whole time they’d known each other. It was a hard truth to grasp, and it made him ache for the John he had known in his past. That John had loved him too, at some point. That John had died thinking Paul would never love him back. Not the right way, anyway. Knowing it was like a slap in Paul’s face; to think of John’s behaviour in the last ten years of his life was painful. All the hurt, all the anger and the resentment that had been sent Paul’s way took on a new meaning now. _John had loved him_. Even if he had maybe fallen out of love along the years, even if Paul knew he had been truly in love with Yoko, it remained true. Thinking about it, thinking about him and all they had been through together was enough to make Paul nauseous, on the verge of tears. How cruel could the world be? To learn that fact now, now that he could not possibly do anything about it, do anything to fix it…? It was a terrible knowledge and somewhere in his mind, Paul wished he had never come face to face with it. He wished he had never known it. Knowing that, _now_, made him question his whole life and everything he had always been so sure of. And, inevitably, it made him question his own feelings. 

He did not know what to think, how to untangle them. He loved John, that was not questionable – but _how_ exactly? Was it _love_ love, what was going on between them? Was he in love? His first instinct was to think yes, he ought to be, but it was hard to really believe it because he didn’t feel that much different from before. He had never been _that_ attracted to John before, sure, but he could not honestly say he had never felt _some_ attraction towards him in his past. It was hard to admit (and he had tried all his might to bury that knowledge), but it did not totally come out of nowhere. So, he could be both attracted to John and not in love with him since he had been in the past. And beyond the physical part, the love he had for John did not seem that different; if anything, it was clearer, brighter. More intense for sure. But not different. Was that it, then? Was being in love with your best friend as literal as it sounded? An even scarier thought crossed his mind.

Could he have just been in love _the whole time_? 

It sounded absurd, impossible. The words froze him in fear the second they formed in his mind and he pushed them away as fiercely as he could. And yet, somehow, it looked like the most logical, natural conclusion. After all, how could he know? He was lost, without any of his usual bearings. Being with John was unlike everything he’d ever known. With his previous loves, it had been comfort, light-heartedness and understanding, support and love visible in every action, every word. It had been the reassuring feeling that he was not alone and that the future could only be bright and welcoming. It had been the promise of sharing memories and experiences, of creating lives together. It had been loving.

With John, it was chaos. 

Warmth and electricity in every fibre of your being, the feeling of constantly being on your toes, of having no idea what he would do or how he would behave next; romantic, fierce, mischievous, friend, lover. It was the opposite of constancy, and yet, it was still irrevocably stable. It was periods of seemingly platonic friendship followed by a passion so intense it burned his whole being. It was witty words, endless jokes and bursts of frenzy, the exact same he had known their whole lives as friends. And yet, it was love. Incommensurable love. Now that he knew it for a fact, Paul felt stupid for not having understood it earlier, and he could see it staring at him in the face. In the tender glint in John’s eyes when he was watching Paul yawn. In the perfect tea cup waiting for him in the morning. In the kisses he planted by surprise on Paul’s mouth when he was in the middle of a sentence. In the hand brushing his hair when Paul was watching the telly and he was passing behind him. In his revering mouth, unable to fall asleep if it wasn’t touching Paul’s shoulder. He had been stupid not to see it, really.

If Paul wasn’t the same lover with John that he had been with his previous partners, John was not acting the way he had seen him do with Cynthia or mostly Yoko either. With Yoko, it had looked borderline obsessive at times; always glued to one another, touching in some way, always looking for the other’s eyes as if being away for a minute was painful. But with Paul, he was very different. He was not specifically affectionate, and Paul suspected that at first glance no one would ever suspect anything was going on between them – which was their goal, anyhow. John basically gave him more space now than when they were younger. But he looked more… tranquil, in a way. Paul did not quite know why that was. If he remembered having been startled at how eerily quiet Yoko and John used to get, sometimes, he was even more surprised to see that with him, the other man seemed even calmer. Of course, he still was his loud and funny self – and let’s be honest, quite obnoxious too – but there did not seem to be the layer of painful vulnerability you could usually detect underneath. He wasn’t trying to stick to Paul’s sides at all times and just gave him a very tender look every time Paul was coming back to him. Perhaps Paul was just reading what he wanted, but it was nice nevertheless. It always made him feel welcome. Treasured. 

When he finally finished his business and started on his way back (thankfully, the neighbourhood was used enough to his presence now for him not to be bothered by anyone), his head was an aching mess. He felt overwhelmed, confused, but also somewhat euphoric. _John loved him_. 

He entered the flat and a giddy buzz ran through him when he spotted John lying on the couch with Martha’s head on his lap, distractingly petting her with his eyes focused on the telly. With a grin stuck to his face, Paul went to put the bags down into the kitchen then came back to the living-room. He noticed Thisbe was curled on the back on the couch, right behind John’s head. Even his pets loved him. 

“Did you miss me?” He asked, feeling cheeky.

John glanced at him, a bit surprised. He seemed to hesitate.

“Don’t flatter yourself, you were not gone that long,” He settled on answering.

Paul plopped down next to Martha, careful not to sit on her wagging tail. He had been in a funny mood all morning, and now it seemed like the giddiness had won. He craved some banter and longed to see John’s closed face crack.

“Must have been long for you, though. You know, since—” Paul started, grinning like an idiot. 

“Don’t you say it!” John retorted firmly, grasping a cushion next to him and aiming it like a missile.

“—you’re in love with me,” Paul finished. 

The cushion landed right on his face. Paul laughed at John’s grumpy face.

“I take it back. You’re an arsehole.”

“You can’t blame me for revelling a bit in that unexpected turn of events,” Paul answered with a grin.

“Mate, I’ve been in love with you for years,” John let out gruffly, sounding awkward about it. “It’s hardly news.”

He then took a cigarette out of his packet, lit it consciously, and shook his head at himself. His unease was getting to Paul, and Paul did not understand why it was or where it was coming from. His fingers were cold and damp, and he straightened his back. He suddenly felt as if he was under some invisible watch.

“I thought I was being so obvious,” John added quietly.

“About what?”

“Everything,” He chuckled embarrassedly. “Since you came back, you seemed so much more… I don’t know.”

His voice had suddenly dropped very low, and the air was thick, fragile. Paul felt like one wrong word would break it and send John far away from him. He swallowed and thought of something to say.

“There was something different about you,” John went on still as quietly, gaze lost. “I couldn’t stop staring at you. At first I was just confused because something had changed in you, obviously, but. I don’t know. I wanted to understand what was going on, you know, it was driving me crazy. You’ve always been a lot, but somehow… I don’t know, you seemed to be more. I felt insane, like I just needed to get closer. Somehow. Which is ridiculous and pathetic, I’m aware of it.” He chuckled self-deprecatingly but did not leave time for Paul to contradict him. “I was fishing for compliments at every occasion. Touching you whenever I could get away with it, asking you about my music. It felt like it was the only subject you were willing to talk about at some point, even if you weren’t happy about it. You looked so out of everything, so lonely,” He paused, his gaze getting lost over the window. “For a while, music was the only topic that made you look alive. As if nothing else made sense anymore. I thought that… somehow, I could fix that.”

Paul found he was not able to say anything, his throat feeling suddenly very dry.

“God, I’m so pathetic,” John chuckled drily.

Paul frowned, a lump still blocking his throat, and tried to reach out but John purposefully lifted his arm to scratch at his head.

“Ringo called back, said he’d be there around 2,” John cut him off. “He shouldn’t be long now. I’ll cook something, alright with you?”

His voice was firm and did not leave space for arguments. Paul stared at him. He wanted to say something, reassure him, but words felt inadequate. Null. As if what needed to be said was there, lurking in a corner of his mind, but he was in too deep a fog to see it. As if he’d sensed his hesitation, John tenderly pushed Martha’s head out of his lap and got up. Paul watched him leave the room with a deep feeling of powerlessness gripping his heart, but soon tried to get a grip on himself. He had to stop doting.

He finally went to help John with the cooking in an attempt to act natural. Not to drown in doubts and questions, just let things happen on their own. Fake it ‘til you make it. Go with the flow. Be careful. There was probably more he could do, but he’d rather focused on music and the little quiet moments with John than on all the bad and ugly things loitering outside of their bubble. They were silent, apart from the odd remark about the carrots and the oven, and Paul did not try to force a conversation. John was obviously not in the mood, for whatever reason, and a fight would not do any of them any good.

Ringo arrived just as they were finishing their lunch, with a smile on his face and a satchel on his shoulder. Martha immediately went to welcome him, sniffing his coat with a rapt attention. 

“Hi girl. Hello, hello,” Ringo told her.

Leaning with crossed arms on the arch of the kitchen, Paul watched them. John walked passed him and went to clap Ringo on the shoulder. Ringo looked up with bright eyes. 

“Are you living here, now?”

The question sent something sharp straight to Paul’s heart but John answered right away. 

“I’m thinking of buying the whole building, you know. Start my own empire.”

Ringo chuckled and took his coat off, much to Martha’s disappointment. 

“Is George coming?” He asked, turning to Paul.

Paul shuffled on his feet, a tad uncomfortable.

“No. Thought he’d need a bit more time.”

Ringo nodded, although he looked a bit sadder at that answer. 

“You eaten?” John asked him as he gold hold of Martha to keep her from bouncing on Ringo again.

“Yes. We’ve actually been to the restaurant with Mo. It was nice.”

“How is it going with her?” Paul asked, jumping on the occasion – and feeling like a terrible friend for not having inquired about it sooner.

“She keeps asking why I’m so weird, but she’s really sweet. I had missed her, you know. I think I might tell her too, sometime,” Ringo replied, as if talking about it was just that easy.

Paul’s eyes widened, a bit taken aback by his candour.

“Well don’t just blurt it out to her this time, yeah? Use more tact, perhaps. Just a thought,” John chipped in.

The three of them moved to Paul’s music room (_ex-John’s room_, Paul’s brain supplied) and got settled, chatting idly about the fine equipment Paul had managed to find. As John was excusing himself to the loo, Ringo turned a serious face to Paul and leant closer to him.

“I think I may have found something,” He said on a conspiratorial tone that sent a weird flash of dread curse through Paul. 

He went to his satchel lying on the bed, got a magazine out of it and gave it to Paul. 

“It’s in the fiction section, page 4, but it seems a bit too big of a coincidence,” He went on.

It was a scientific magazine Paul had never heard of, looking all yellow and stiff from the years. It was dated from Thursday, February 14th, 1894, and looked like it had been passed from hand to hand for years on end. Paul went to said page, his stomach slowly turning into lead, and found a column called ‘Story of the Week’ with a short text written by some ‘Briony F’. According to the header of the column, it was the first portion of a ten-part story.

_“I lost my journal. Not the way people lose their keys or their hats. Not the way you do when you leave your belonging in a café after a warm meal with friends, or when you leave it in some place different in your home, some secret stash only you could possibly have access to. Or when one day, you wake up and realise you have not thought about that belonging for so long it’s a wonder you even remember it exists at all. I did not lose it that way. I lost it to another lifetime, another universe. A dream-like episode of my years on Earth, at which I can only look with squinted eyes, always wondering if anyone has ever seen any thing clearly and brightly in their lives. I have lost it, and no one here shall ever find it again.  
So, let me write it. Begin again. An umpteenth fresh start, a lungful of hope.  
My name is Briony Fellness, I’m 48 years old. And during the two years that ran from June 1891 to November 1893, I was a youngster again.” _  


Paul’s vision suddenly got blurry, his mind going blank and his ears buzzing. His hands started shaking but he tried his best not to move, not to give his emotion away.

“Where did you get it?” He asked with an oddly detached voice, as if it was not quite coming from him.

“The library. Last week. There was not much in the science fiction section but the librarian told me the stories in that one were good too sometimes. Thought a look wouldn’t hurt, but I didn’t expect to actually find anything, you know. It’s a shame because apparently the copies of that magazine are very hard to find, they ran out of business pretty quickly. I have only find the one so far but I’m going to keep looking. For sure we can find more.”

Paul let the words wash through him, straining to grapple them with lucidity.

“What are you two conspiring about?” A nasal voice floated to him.

Ringo looked up, ready to answer but Paul beat him to him. He closed the magazine, trying not to be too brisk about it, and smiled at John who was entering the room. It was a wonder his facial muscles moved at all. 

“Nothing, Ritchie was just showing me a funny drawing,” Paul lied as easy as breathing, showing the cartoon of a rocket ship popping out of a house on the page opposite the short story.

John came closer and leant over his shoulder to take a look.

“Huh,” He said with a small smile.

Paul ignored the burn of Ringo’s gaze on his face. He closed the magazine and quickly got out of the room to store it in his bedroom’s closet. When he came back to the room, Ringo was looking at him pointedly while John was sitting with his guitar in hands. 

“Paulie, please?” John said with a rather small voice when he saw him, handing his guitar to Paul.

“Oh, I’m your servant now?” Paul joked, forcing the guilt out of his face as good as he could.

John simply waggled his eyebrows, even though his smile did not quite reach his eyes. With a huff, Paul took the guitar and started tuning it. Ringo sat on the bed next to them, now curiously observing the room. When Paul was done with tuning the guitar, he gave it back to John and turned to take out his and tune it too. He finally forced himself to turn to Ringo, schooling his expression. 

“We should list the songs we’re sure we want to keep. See if we want to make them along the way or follow the order we… uh, the first one we followed in the past.”

“And ask the boys what they think of it,” Ringo emphatically added.

“Yeah, of course,” Paul relented.

Soft notes rose between them and made them look briefly. John had started playing a mindless tune, seemingly already lost in his world. For a second, Paul felt his position as an outsider as his own and a dull pain rang in him. Perhaps he should have talked to Ringo alone, first. Perhaps…

“Perhaps we should focus on the ones we were happy doing?” Ringo proposed, looking deep in thought. “You know, the ones that really drove us when we recorded them, or something. Not the ones that only one of us liked, you know. Except for George’s ones, of course. It’s mostly about yours anyway. And mine too, I guess.”

“You mean Paul and I’s,” John corrected without looking up from his guitar.

Ringo exchanged an embarrassed look with Paul. Paul sighed, not knowing how to phrase it not to make it look worse than it was.

“Well, our later songs were… more clearly divided,” He explained painfully. “Between you and me.”

John’s head snapped up to look at Paul, but his expression remained frustratingly neutral. Unable to sustain his gaze, Paul turned to focus on his capo. He cleared his throat and then frowned slightly.

“Anyway, if there are some songs that not _all of you_ liked but that—” He started.

“If you’re thinking about freaking ‘Maxwell’s Silver Hammer’ I swear I’m quitting the band,” Ringo cut him off with wide warning eyes.

Paul gasped at him, offended. John looked up between them, his curiosity tickled.

“What is it?” He asked.

“It’s a nightmare Paul put us through for weeks, obsessing over the smallest details,” Ringo told him without taking his eyes off Paul.

Paul raised his arms in disbelief and John lightly chuckled.

“It was only days!” Paul cried out. “Why are you all so hung up on that song, seriously?! It’s a good song!”

“I’m not doing it. Consider yourself warned. Do it in your solo career if you want.”

Paul shook his head at him, glancing at John for a support that never didn’t – couldn’t – come. 

“Fine. Fine, okay. You have bad taste, I get it, nevermind,” Paul relented, vaguely trying to hide his disappointment. 

That got a smile out of Ringo though, and they did settle on starting a list. They were trying to focus on the songs that were Paul’s idea to start with and to rule out any song that they could not remember at once. It was a heart-breaking process for Paul, who was used to throw himself body and soul into every song he created, but he knew Ringo had a point. They needed rules, bearings. Reassurance, mostly. And if he did not want to lose Ringo – or even John in the long term – he knew it was necessary to be transparent and precise about what was new music and what was old news for the two of them. Each time they talked about one of Paul’s songs, they sang it and played it a little for John to get his opinion on it, but quickly found out John was not exactly willing to voice his thoughts about them. He was being very quiet, a lot more than usual, and would only say ‘nice’ or ‘gear’ once in a while. Paul tried to get more from him, to tell him about the themes and the moments when the songs were created in the first place, but nothing seemed to move John out of that docile behaviour he had adopted. As if he didn’t dare toss out any of the songs. The thing was, Paul couldn’t blame him at all: he couldn’t imagine how weird it had to be for him, talking and hearing about songs some other version of him had known and sung. It was a strange afternoon for the three of them: bringing up old songs that were new to this era, picking the best ones of them as if they were presented various oranges at a market’s display. Thankfully Ringo was easy to haggle with and in the end, there was no song they were really disagreeing about. 

Lying on the bed, Paul was going over the list they had practically finished. John was cross-legged on the floor, back against the bed and biting on his nails. Paul was pretty sure he wasn’t listening anymore at that point, but he didn’t want to provoke a fight by calling him out on it. Ringo was sitting on the piano and playing titbits of ‘Octopus’ Garden’. When a specific song came to Paul’s mind, he couldn’t hold a sigh.

“Ring. What about ‘Helter Skelter’?” He asked. 

Ringo glanced at him with a small frown.

“What about it? It’s a good one, we should definitely keep it.”

“But what about Manson?” Paul pushed on.

Ringo stopped playing and turned fully to Paul. 

“I hadn’t thought about it,” He confessed quietly.

John looked up and turned to Paul too. A frown was appearing on his forehead as well.

“What’s Manson?” He asked Paul.

Even after spending so many months in the past, that kind of question was still as weird to hear for Paul. It was strange to live in a world where people didn’t know who Charles Manson was. Paul stood straighter on the bed, coming to sit right next to John. It was reassuring to feel his warmth against his leg. Anchoring.

“He’s a serial killer. Or more like, a cult leader I guess. He was… let’s say he claimed that that one song had inspired him to… you know. Push his followers to do it. They killed seven people.”

John’s frown deepened.

“What the hell did you write?!” He asked, sounding a bit spooked about it.

“Nothing! He’s just insane. But… I don’t know, I don’t want the same stories to happen all over again.”

“Maybe they won’t,” Ringo chided in, half-shrugging but not looking very confident about it.

“But maybe they will,” Paul retorted right away.

Ringo looked down, visibly thinking it over.

“That song opened a lot of doors for a lot of musicians,” He simply said. “As far as music history goes… don’t grow a bigger head, but it was quite significant.”

“I know, but…” Paul answered, confliction gripping his head. “I don’t know. Is it worth the risk? I wouldn’t be able to look at myself in the mirror if all those murders happened again because of it.”

“Are you sure your song is really what made them happen, though?” John asked softly, his hand coming on Paul’s knee. Warm. 

Paul looked at him. His eyes were clear, confident, and Paul was not sure of anything anymore.

“I don’t know. Looks like it triggered something, anyway. Something awful.”

“But nothing proves it wouldn’t have happened without the song, does it?” John insisted. “If that bloke’s insane, he will probably do the same with another song. People will always interpret things in our music whether you want it or not. You shouldn’t feel guilty for things that are out of your control.”

Ringo shuffled on his piano bench, slipping his hands under his thighs.

“You can’t measure the worth of a song, or of any creation for that matter, only by the bad repercussions it has had. Especially when it’s indirect. It’s not fair. If you judge it on good and bad, then at least you gotta measure the good too,” He explained calmly. “What is has brought to the world. To us. To you, Paul. Every song’s legacy is a mix of a little bit of both, on some scale. What happens after the song comes out is not of your responsibility.”

“So what, the end justifies the means?” Paul retorted in a snort. “I like it, so screw everyone else?”

“No, of course not. I’m just saying, don’t confuse everything. What happened is a tragedy, but the song did not cause it.”

Silence fell on them. Heavy and thoughtful.

“When did you become so wise?” John asked Ringo after a while.

“I’m 79, son,” Ringo answered with a smile.

“God, you’re old,” John whistled with a sort of stunned expression.

Paul twisted his hands. He could hear their arguments… but the idea still didn’t sit well with him.

“I don’t know. I’m still not sure I’d be comfortable doing it, now.”

“That’s another problem, though,” John told him, his hand squeezing Paul’s knee. “If you don’t want to do it, then let’s not do it. Right, Rings?” He turned to Ringo, who nodded eagerly. “I mean, I don’t even know the song anyway so, you know. George and I won’t mind.”

"Okay. Okay. We'll see later then, alright?" Paul proposed.

“Yeah. Fair enough,” Ringo added.

Paul nodded along, although he didn’t know if he was answering to them or persuading himself. John’s fingers slipped between his and he looked up to find his gentle eyes on him. Reflex made Paul glance at Ringo to check his reaction but Ringo did not bat an eye and just smiled at Paul again, before getting up.

“Okay. I think we’ve covered it. How many songs do we have?” He asked Paul as he was putting his satchel over his head.

Paul quickly counted the list with his free hand, muttering to himself under John’s curious gaze.

“24,” He answered after a moment.

“Out of how many?” John asked.

Paul shrugged. 

“I’m not sure. It was… five albums. Including the double. Must be around 80 songs or something.”

John made an impressed face.

“Past yous were goddamn efficient,” He simply said, mocking a terrible American accent.

“Leaves us a lot of free movement,” Paul added, checking the titles on the list once again. “Lots of writing to do.”

“Well lads, I’m leaving you here. See you tonight at the studio. 7pm?” Ringo told them, waving at them as he was getting to the door of the room.

“Yep. Don’t get lost on the way,” Paul answered.

Ringo chuckled in response, his steps echoing into the corridor until all of a sudden, the door creaked and slapped close. The flat was silent once again. Paul naturally turned his head to John, who was still sitting on the floor against his legs, his hand gripping Paul’s. He sensed Paul’s eyes on him and looked up, a shy, unsure smile blossoming on his face. For a fleeting second, Paul wondered what he looked unsure and worried about. There were so many possible reasons that his head ached just thinking about it. The thought of the short story Ringo had shown him shot back into his memory and his anxiety woke up again. He was not quite sure why he had lied to John about it. He only knew that in the moment, panic made it seem like the only possible option. He didn’t know if that story would bring them any more knowledge on their situation, but the fact that at least one other person had allegedly lived the same thing – and most of all, seemed to have come back from it – was dizzying. Opened up new possibilities he had never allowed himself to consider ever since he had woken up on that second day in Cardiff. He did not dare put too much hope on it. Better wait to see if they ever found the other parts of the story. Enjoy what he had rather than chase moonbeams.

He lifted John’s hand to his mouth to plant a kiss on it when an idea popped in his head.

“Do you want to go to France?” He suddenly asked John.

John’s widened with surprise. He let out a puzzled chuckle.

“Now?!”

Paul smiled and shook his head. 

“No, no… When we have some free days. I want to show you the village where I stayed.”

John frowned, doubt painted all over his face in a nearly comical way.

“Is it like, particularly beautiful?”

“No,” Paul chuckled. “But it’s peaceful. No one will know us there.”

John observed his face for a moment, pensive.

“I can see the appeal,” He finally conceded.

Paul grinned and slid down on the floor, bringing both his hands up to John’s face and kissing him softly on the mouth. He lingered there, finding it impossible not to. He could smell hints of that coconut shampoo he had grown so fond of and that only drove him to press himself closer to the other man. If he could get away with it, he would probably be kissing John 24/7.

“What is that for?” John asked quietly once Paul pulled back.

His eyes were searching.

“Just happy you’re here, is all,” Paul shrugged, a bit surprised at the scrutiny. “Hope the afternoon wasn’t too tedious for you.”

John’s eyes softened the tiniest bit.

“It’s alright. Rather being lost between you grandpas than being left on the side.”

Paul sighed, putting his forehead against John’s.

“It’s not gonna help with George, is it,” He sombrely said.

“I doubt it.”

Paul closed his eyes. Why did he have to make the same mistake, over and over and over again…?

“Hey,” John said, caressing Paul’s cheek and bringing him out of his head. “You’re doing the best you can. No one can blame you for that. He’ll understand, eventually.”

Paul nodded, trying to take the words in – no matter how unlikely they seemed at the moment.

“Shouldn’t you go home for a bit before tonight’s session?” He asked John, trying not to purr like a cat when his boyfriend kept slowly massaging his cheekbone.

“Naaah.”

Paul opened his eyes to frown at him.

“You haven’t seen Julian today,” He pointed out.

“And he’ll survive another night without me,” John replied right away with a raised eyebrow. “He’s got his mum.”

“John…”

John took Paul’s shoulders in his hands, shuffling on his butt to face Paul properly. The afternoon light was pouring in from the window and illuminating the side of his face.

“Paul. I’m staying. Unless you absolutely want to kick me out.”

Paul rolled his eyes at John’s dramatic tone.

“Of course not.”

“Then the discussion is closed. Now take off your clothes, please.”

Paul laughed out loud but his hands were already obeying.

The session was going well, although it was clear from the start that everyone was treading on egg shells. There was electricity in the air, and the lightest spark was susceptible to light everything on fire. Everyone was speaking in normal amounts, but no one was actually talking, as if the four of them had tacitly agreed not to breach any controversial topic. Or even any topic at all.

Paul was optimistic about the future album: now that he didn’t feel as obligated to follow the exact creation process he had the first time around, he felt freer, and ideas seemed to already flow in more easily. Things were not back to normal yet – he didn’t know how they could regarding the situation – but he had good hope that they could still be a functioning, creatively successful band. He kept throwing glances to George, trying to gauge his feelings and state of mind, but only found a blank face in return. He had no idea what was going on in the lad’s mind. They hadn’t talked since the night at Ringo’s house, not about the future thing nor the gay-with-John thing. Paul was both dreading and looking forward to the moment they would get to do it. He was watching out for the good moment, the opportunity to find himself alone with him and be able to clarify things. Make sure George was not pushing him out. Paul and John were strictly behaving as friends, of course, but it was unnerving to be so careful about every single word. To not know how George felt about any of it.

The moment arrived when they all took a break for a late dinner. George declared he was not hungry and wanted to get a bit of fresh air indeed, and Paul jumped on the occasion. Pretending he was starting a headache, he smiled at John’s worried face and rushed to follow George out of the building and into the backyard that was usually empty for it was barely more than a square of chipped tiled floor. George was already sitting on the bench and lighting up a cigarette. In the dim light, with only the moon and the nearby street lamps for company, the little flicker of orange reflecting on his face seemed like the most dangerous weapon.

Paul entered the backyard with slow, cautious steps, and went to stop at the wooden fence to lean on it. He dived his hands in his pockets, chills making him regretting not to have taken his coat with him. George briefly looked up at him with an unreadable face but did not say anything for a long while. Paul was usually comfortable with words; putting people at ease was his specialty. But in that moment, he found he was maybe the one who needed to be put at ease.

“I’ve got to ask, mate,” George suddenly said in the eerie silence. “Is it for a laugh?”

Paul swallowed, pushing a broken piece of tile with his foot.

“Which part?”

George smiled to himself before glancing at Paul again.

“Ringo’s got me all informed on the old men part already,” He said. “It’s pretty insane.”

“You believe it?” Paul asked, his voice full of hope.

George studied his face, let out a slow blow of smoke.

“Didn’t quite say that.”

Paul nodded. He was not surprised, although hearing it did cut deep. It appeared that at least George was giving them the benefit of the doubt. He wasn’t ridiculing them, or laughing at them. He listened, and that had to matter.

“You and John, then? Was that for real? You don’t look much different.”

Paul looked up and this time, he met George’s piercing eyes straight on. As if George was trying to read inside his soul – which he might be doing. He had always been much more perceptive than he was given credit for. 

“Yes,” Paul simply said. “It’s for real.”

“Were you going to tell me?”

Paul had a choice, but the earnestness and trust emanating from George didn’t leave him one.

“I don’t know,” He admitted. “I don’t think so. Not for a while, anyway.”

George gaped a little, visibly licking his own teeth and still staring at Paul. His cigarette was elegantly dangling from his long fingers. The portrait of a murderer.

“You told Ringo.”

“He saw us.”

“Frolicking in public, were you?”

Paul snorted, trying to will his embarrassment away. This was George. Chaffing around without a trace of malice in his voice, in his posture. He was still his friend, and it was okay. And yet, the fear of being rejected was still burning in him.

“What do you think about it?” Paul asked.

George looked away with a raised eyebrow. Tapped the ashes from his cigarette away, took another drag.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” He started. “I don’t really think anything. It’s weird. I mean, obviously. But it’s not… I’m not shocked, or anything. I would have been if it had been you and another man, maybe, but John... I don’t know. It’s not shocking.”

“It was a shock for me,” Paul confessed.

“Was it, really?”

Paul did not know how to answer to that, too caught up in the implications behind that simple question. A silence fell upon them, and Paul tried not to stare at his friend. He wanted to dig into his brain and see clearly what he thought of it. How he lived it. What he thought of Paul, of John, what he had ever thought about the two of them. It was probably odd and invasive, but it was important for him to really know. To see how others saw it. As if he had read his mind, George glanced at him and chuckled embarrassedly.

“Paul, really, I don’t care. As long as you don’t want to shag me too.”

“Of course not,” Paul chuckled back with a frown. “Don’t be gross.”

George lightly punched his shoulder. He was smiling.

“Hey, no need to be rude.”

Paul grinned at him. He crossed his arms, feeling the chilling breeze more than ever.

“Are you proper queer then?” George asked, just like that.

Words blocked on the tip of Paul’s lips. He cleared his throat.

“I haven’t tried to label myself,” He truthfully answered.

“So you’re not queer in the future?”

“No,” Paul replied quickly with a shake of the head. “It’s just… You know. Just John.”

George nodded, wearing a thoughtful pout. When he put out his cigarette, Paul pushed himself off of the fence.

“We should head back,” He announced. “The lads are going to think we’ve sneaked off back home.”

“You mean _they_ are going to sneak off back home,” George countered, getting up to follow him.

Paul turned his head back to look at his laughing face. His teeth looked like they were shining in the moonlight. 

It was a lovely sight.


	48. Chapter 48

The December wind was ice-cold, biting Paul’s face with a vigour he was not used to. He would have chosen a less windy spot if it wasn’t for the fact that it was pretty much the only area of the whole train station that was not crowded with people. He was alone, wearing glasses and his collar up to his face, but he still didn’t want to take any chances. 

They had agreed with John not to take the same plane, and to meet only to take the train in order to pass as discreetly as possible. Paul did not know how much of these precautions could be imputed to paranoia, but despite his natural optimism (which seemed to have drastically diminished ever since he had arrived in the past), he preferred to rely on the good old motto ‘better safe than sorry’. John was way too important to take things lightly. So now he was waiting at the back of the train station, a tiny corner he had spotted on his last visit and that he had carefully described to John before leaving England, cursing once again the scientists who had not managed to invent cell phones yet. He didn’t even want to imagine the nightmare it would be to have to search for his boyfriend in a foreign country when said boyfriend did not speak a word of French and was most likely to draw attention to himself whether he wanted it or not. He seemed to just have an instinctual talent to bring trouble to him, and the whole intent of their vacation here was to _avoid_ trouble. He knew his plane had landed in Lille two hours earlier than John’s so it was not abnormal for him not to have arrived yet, but he was restless and could hardly stay sitting on his bit of wall. Getting up, he started pacing with his hands deep in his pockets, his hair flying in his face that he carefully kept hidden from the people passing in the street. He couldn’t wait. 

The last few days had been a tad strange. Finding a rhythm in his new life – and especially new relationship – was, as expected, quite tricky. Ever since he had fully realized that his neighbours were aware about them, he was less inclined to have John over at his apartment, and going to John’s house (with Cynthia, and Julian) made him a bit uneasy. They had met a couple of nights at John’s empty property, but things felt temporary, as if it all was just a makeshift solution in-between two situations. The thing was, Paul had no idea what the next situation could be like. He didn’t mind the disrupted rhythm of life – after all, he had never been a routine kind of guy – but he still longed to have some certainty, some reassurance somewhere that things would at some point get easier. Be more normal. He felt almost bad for thinking this way, but… he wished he didn’t have to wonder when he would be able to see John next. It was ironic, in a way: he worked with John and saw him nearly every day, and yet he still longed to really see him as much as he wanted. Not to have to think everything through and go into analytic mode every single time he wanted to spend some time with him. He knew he could just say ‘fuck it’ and live with the flow, face the consequences when they came and not worry about everything like Brian, but John’s safety came first. The risk of him being killed again was like an ominous lighthouse in his mind, always shining in a corner and reminding itself to him in every thought. He would not let anything happen to him. He could not.

As a result, their decision to leave the country for a few days had required some reflection beforehand.  
According to John, the easiest way not to look suspicious was to behave just as usual, that is to say not to second guess every little action. When they were just friends, they wouldn’t have cared what anyone would think if they decided to just leave on a vacation, the two of them. After all, they had done it for John’s 21st birthday. That had been before they had gotten famous, but the fact remained that no one had batted an eye about it, then. They had six days off now, and no one to answer to about how they chose to spend them. So they had decided to just be honest with the few people they actually wanted to warn: Cynthia, and the boys. The good thing was that since Ringo and George were aware they were an item, they didn’t have to worry about what they thought of it.

The occasion had come at the end of a particularly long session of recording, when George had warned the three of them not to try to contact him during their days off for he would spend them sleeping away. With a glance to John, Paul had answered that John and he wouldn’t bother him anyway since they were going to France. Ringo had smiled at him, George had raised his eyebrows, and that had been that. For the two remaining work days, there had been no comment, no joke, no nothing. Paul didn’t really know how he felt about that. On one side, he was relieved not to have to justify anything, or to have embarrassing conversations, but on the other side, he knew this wasn’t a ‘normal’ behaviour either. Had he left for a few days with Linda, in the past, the others would have asked questions, or joked, or even just said ‘good for you’. Anything, really, but at least some reaction. Their silence now was easy to deal with, but it was not exactly reassuring either. He knew they didn’t mean anything bad, he knew it and trusted them, but he didn’t like the sort of taboo that was slowly growing around John and him. He guessed in a way that it was inevitable; John and he were behaving the same as usual. They were not openly affectionate – how could they be when the moments when they were only the four of them were so few – and still joked the same. They were not glued to each other, and most nights they left each on their side. Sure, they still found stolen moments for a kiss or a quick hug once in a while in the shadows of the studio, but they made sure no one saw that. They were a secret for the employers of Abbey Road, and a vaguely open one for their bandmates. It was a weird situation and Paul did not know how he felt about it yet. Something told him he wouldn’t stand it for very long, but unless they took the risk to tell everyone at the studios (or at least not to hide anymore), he didn’t see how they could do differently in the foreseeable future. 

He had not been present when John had told Cynthia about their vacation, but apparently she hadn’t reacted much either. Paul guessed she didn’t mind much; she knew how close John and he were, even just as friends. There was nothing outstandingly weird in their departure, especially since they were both officially single. A ‘bachelors’ trip’. Really, the only one Paul was truly worried about was Brian. They hadn’t told him they were leaving, and Paul could only hope their manager wouldn’t try to call them during their absence. Surely George or Ringo would find good excuses for them, but Cynthia would simply tell the truth, and Brian wouldn’t like it. Paul could already picture him lecturing them about their recklessness, how dangerous their behaviour was. With some distance, he could see now what John meant when he said Brian was being overly dramatic. As long as they were not ‘frolicking in public’ as George had so elegantly said, there was no real reason for anyone to suspect anything fishy was going on between them. Or so he hoped. Sure, there was the letter, but… that was probably just an empty threat. Right?

Shaking himself out of his thoughts – and hopefully out of the cold that was slowly gripping his every limb –, Paul turned around and looked at the street adjourning the train station, making sure in the process that his bag was still between his feet. From where he was, he had a good view on the taxi line in front of the station and was sure not to miss John’s arrival. As it was a Friday, there was some commotion on the street, but not as much as Paul knew there would be a few decades later. After a moment of idle gazing, a glimpse of auburn caught his eye from the distance, making him feel like an eagle honing in on a rabbit. And for sure, there he was: taking his bag from the trunk of his taxi and coming back up to thank the driver through his window. He was wearing a dark green tweed jacket Paul didn’t know, a newspaper cap and his large black round glasses. Paul patiently observed him as he turned to face the train station, tilting his head up to watch the building and holding his cap with one hand to save it from the wind. Warmth and butterflies erupted all over inside Paul’s body and he knew from his tiring cheeks that he was smiling like a madman. An urge grew in him to just rush up to him and take him in his arms, but his rationality and curiosity won and he stayed put, watching whether or not John would be able to find their rendezvous spot on his own. He couldn’t quite make out his face from the distance, but he knew his body language so well that he could perfectly interpret every single gesture. Right now John was repeating Paul’s instructions in his head, and counting the number of entrances to find the right one to base himself onto. When he found it, he turned his body in Paul’s direction and started walking a bit blindly, still observing the building carefully. When he was about thirty meters from Paul, Paul saw his eyes scan the street to finally land on him. The way they instantly lit up, a smile taking up his face, made Paul feel even warmer. 

Paul pulled his hands out of his pockets and hugged himself not to just run to John while John was lightly jogging up to him. He stopped in front of Paul, beaming as if he didn’t care in the slightest who could see him. 

“Hiya, stranger,” He told Paul with a giddy voice. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” Paul answered with a barely contained smile. 

“It is,” John confirmed with a dramatic nod. “How was your flight?”

Paul wanted to kiss him so badly it was torture to stop himself from just staring at his lips. He forced himself to form a normal answer.

“Eventless. Yours?”

“I was next to a man who snored the whole time. Nearly tried to smother him to death with his scarf just so I wouldn’t have to hear him anymore.”

Paul snorted and picked up his bag. 

“I would have had to pick you up at the police station. Brian would have loved that.”

“Aye. He’s the only reason why I didn’t, mind you,” John added. 

Paul laughed fully and motioned John to follow him with a nod, to which John obeyed right away. They were walking at a safe distance one from the other and made sure to keep their faces down. Paul couldn’t wait to be alone with him and to finally say hello properly.

“When is the train?” John asked as they were entering the building.

Paul checked his watch.

“In half an hour. I bought you a ticket.”

“How chivalrous of you.”

“I know, don’t mention it.”

They followed the boards to find their platform and snaked a way through the crowd. Thankfully, nobody seemed to pay them any attention. The train was already there and finding secluded empty seats in it turned out to be very easy. Not many people went for the countryside in the middle of the day on a week day. They put their luggage up on the storage compartment and sat side by side, John cosying up next to the window.

“What name should I have? Can I be Consuelo?” He said to Paul as he was bunching up his jacket against the cold armrest against the window.

“That’s a girl’s name,” Paul snorted. 

John froze and turned frowning eyes to him.

“Really?!”

“And I told them about Mike already, so I thought you could say you were him,” Paul went on. “You look young enough.”

“So I’m your brother now.”

Paul grinned at him.

“My special brother.”

“Ugh, just don’t,” John grimaced, pushing Paul’s face away with his hand.

Some people were starting to fill into the wagon around them. Paul folded his coat on his lap and calmly observed them, drumming his fingers on his thigh. They were at the very end of the last wagon, as far as they could possibly go. When everyone was settled, the train left and Paul was happy to notice there was no one in their direct entourage who could see them or really hear them. His body literally humming with the need to get closer to John, Paul leaned into him to put his head on his shoulder, struggling to find a comfortable position. He felt more than he saw John chuckle, his face angled down towards him.

“Getting bold, huh,” He teased him. 

“There’s no one close enough to see us,” Paul answered, though he was speaking softly – in case. “Don’t fall asleep, though. We’ll have to take another train in Arras.”

John hummed and turned back to watch the platform, then the train station disappear behind them. Once Paul settled in a somewhat okay position, his head half against John’s throat, John squeezed his thigh.

“You’re like Martha,” He chuckled.

His voice made his throat vibrate against Paul’s head and it reassured Paul, somehow. Confirmed to him that he was alive and breathing. 

“Well, she’s a good girl,” He answered, ignoring the double entendre that could be drawn from such a statement.

“She is. The very best.”

With those words, John laid his cheek on Paul’s head and for a while they just enjoyed the ride. Paul still was on alert and lifted his head up numerous times at the first suspicious noise, but other than that, the peace and quiet was nice. He could only hope it would be the same for their whole stay.

Of course, it wasn’t.

When they finally arrived at their final train stop, Achiet, all sore from having stayed put for so long in uncomfortable seats, only they and one other passenger were getting off. The small train station was empty save for one bored employee and an old woman who was apparently waiting for the train all day long but never got on any of them. Seeing how desperately empty the area was, Paul realized at once the mistake he had made when he had refused Émile’s offer to send someone fetch them with a car. He had not wanted to disrupt anyone’s day, but had also not quite realized that taxis were not really a thing in that region. Thankfully, a few broken words of French convinced the other passenger to drive them as close to Léchelle as possible without him having to change his own itinerary. It still left them with more than an hour of walking, but that was better than nothing. The man had lived in the region his whole life and spent the whole ride explaining to them with a lot of gestures the way they were supposed to go to get to Léchelle. They said goodbye to their impromptu driver and both set off with their bags over their shoulders, diving into the forest trail and bracing themselves against the cold. Paul lifted his collar again and buried his chin into it. Oh well, at least it wasn’t snowing. 

“At least it’s not snowing,” John suddenly said as they were walking side by side.

Paul smiled at him.

“That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

“I know, I was reading your mind,” John answered, wiggling his eyebrows. 

He bumped his shoulder and suddenly took Paul’s gloved hand into his bare one. Paul had the reflex to look around, but they couldn’t have possibly been more alone. Only trees, dirt, fields and pebbles for miles around them. His body slowly relaxed and he let his own side bump into John’s as they walked.

“They will probably ask us to help them around the farm a bit,” He told John. 

John raised an eyebrow and shook his head but his eyes were glimmering with mirth.

“Argh, I knew this was a trap. I thought we were on holidays.”

“They are farmers! They don’t have holidays.”

John hummed, looking ahead of them. He was swinging their joined hands between them as would a 6-year-old, and Paul loved it.

“Shh, let me talk to them,” John said. “I’ll tell them working is bad for our health. Surely Adèle will understand that your pretty face cannot risk looking tired.”

“You’re gonna charm her with your impeccable French then, are you?” Paul asked with a mocking grin.

John grinned back and leant closer to him. 

“Adèle… ma belle!” He started singing in his ear. “Sont des mots qui vont très bien ensemble… très bien ensemble…”

Paul laughed. 

“Maybe I’ll sing ‘If I Fell’ to her,” John went on, his eyes not leaving Paul’s face. “She will fall for me right away and you will cry your eyes out.”

Paul glanced at him, still laughing.

“I think you’re overestimating her understanding of the English language. It literally stops at ‘hello’ and ‘thank you’.”

John chuckled quietly, looking down at the path in front of them. Paul let the silence grow between them, comfortable. There was something deeply euphoric in being able to hold hands outdoors and he squeezed his fingers, just to feel them through the glove.

“That one’s about you,” John said quietly in response.

“Mmh? What is what?”

“’If I fell’. Wrote it about you.”

“No you didn’t,” Paul snorted.

“Yes, I did,” John frowned, looking like a miffed little kid.

Looking at his pouting face, Paul chuckled but when John didn’t respond the same he stopped in his tracks to stare at his serious, even frowning face. John looked back at him then turned his head to look around them, his teeth worrying his lower lip. He looked embarrassed, and Paul knew then that he really meant it. The words of the song ran through his mind, uncalled for and desperately romantic. Romantic—?

“You didn’t,” Paul insisted again, refusing to believe he had been so wrong all this time. “We wrote it together!”

“What? Are you kidding, it was my idea! And I wrote it thinking about you, whether you like it or not.” Then, as if in an afterthought, he added: “And you know, ‘In My Life’ is about you too.”

His eyes were stuck somewhere on a beech next to them, avoiding Paul’s at all cost.

“You’re joking,” Paul levelled him with a disbelieving look.

“I swear on Martha’s head.”

“Don’t you swear on my dog!”

John laughed, but his cheeks were flushed. Once again said song invaded every corner of Paul’s mind, just as the memories of its writing fought their way to the forefront of his thoughts. The two of them at John’s house, John showing him the lyrics he had come up with. They had been perfect from the beginning; John had seemed relieved, as if it was a trial, somehow. Paul had always thought it was because it was the first time John was getting a bit introspective, but… But what if…

In my life, I love you more. 

_In my life, I love you more._

“I thought you liked them,” John suddenly added a bit quieter, cutting through Paul’s thoughts.

Paul straightened his back, feeling suddenly uneasy. It took some time for him to realize he was ashamed. The more time passed and the more he discovered how truly blind he had been, for all those years.

“I do,” He confirmed softly. “It’s just… You wrote me songs, and I didn’t even know. In all these years, I never… I’m sorry I didn’t see anything.”

John shrugged, his gaze falling on the path again. 

“I’m not. I didn’t want you to.” Then, with an embarrassed chuckle, he added: “I didn’t even want to see it myself.”

Paul stared at him but John merely started walking faster and tugged on his hand.

“Anyway, let’s not dwell on my unrequited love, please. I’m hungry and I want to taste Adèle’s famous pie.”

Paul accelerated to follow him. His bag was starting to feel quite heavy on his shoulder. They went on for a while, the sun following their route in the startlingly blue sky. The countryside was quiet and empty save for the occasional livestock grazing away in their pens. They kept pointing various things at each other, trees, animals, flowers, even rocks. It was just so nice to be together, to be outside and alone, that every little thing seemed to be important enough to be noticed and to be shared with the other. The air was so brisk that taking lungfuls of it tingled his trachea, but it was a good sort of pain. It made him feel healthy and hopeful. When they finally reached the vicinity of Léchelle, the first houses becoming visible in the distance, Paul turned to look at John’s face. His features were relaxed, open. He was humming to himself, still swinging Paul’s hand in his. Paul was overwhelmed with a desire to kiss him and made a decision in a split second. He dropped his bag on the floor, tugged on John’s hand and led him behind a thick grove, away from any possible curious eyes. John followed with raised eyebrows, a bit taken by surprise and his own bag falling from his shoulder. Paul pushed him against the nearest tree and surged up to kiss him fully on the mouth, probably putting too much force into it but not caring in the slightest. He didn’t know when the next time he would be able to do that would arrive. He felt John smile against his lips, and then his cold hands slipping up into his nape, brushing his hair. Paul shivered at the touch and deepened the kiss, struggling not to let his desire get out of control – they remained outdoors, where anyone could pop up and catch them. He needed to be careful, no matter how hard it was sometimes. Crazy how he downright _adored_ kissing John, though.

After a good minute or so of snogging, Paul finally pulled back, ignoring how John’s lips tried to follow his. He opened his eyes and gently caressed John’s eyebrows and his cheeks. When he opened his eyes, Paul smiled softly at him.

“Hi,” He said in a breath. 

John’s eyes tracked his mouth then went up to Paul’s eyes. A slow smile appeared on his face too.

“Hey,” He answered on the same tone.

Paul pointed at the village with his head.

“Ready?”

“As much as I could ever be,” John responded with a dramatic voice.

Paul snorted and pushed himself away from the tree and from John. He picked up his bag and saw John doing the same. With a last smile to each other, they joined the closest road leading up to the village.

As Paul had expected, Adèle and Émile had not lost any time to use the extra hands in their farm. Paul had barely reunited with them (Adèle saying she could barely recognized him now that he was less skinny and without the beard) and done the introductions that Émile had already asked them if they could help him milk the cows while he was caring for one of his calves who was sick. John had lost all his colours when he had understood what was going on, and Paul couldn’t help but snicker in his corner at the idea of John trying to milk a cow. Taking pity on his boyfriend, he had somehow explained to Émile that John wasn’t used to dealing with animals and Adèle had kindly proposed he helped her taking care of the laundry instead. But as John preferred to stay with Paul, they both found their way to the cowshed with empty buckets in their hands, wellies on their feet and old jackets that belonged to Émile on their backs. 

Émile did not have a particularly large herd, only a dozen of individuals, but it was enough to have John freeze at the entrance and look at them with apprehension. Paul laughed at the sight and went right to the first cow, saying hi to her and caressing her back before taking a seat next to her and placing the bucket under her udders. John just watched him and the cows as if he expected for them to suddenly lose control and run off.

“It smells like Hamburg’s bathrooms in here,” John groaned.

“Come here,” Paul told him with a grin. “I’ll show you.”

“Didn’t know you were a cow expert,” The other answered as he approached carefully.

“I had a farm, remember?” Paul countered with a wink. 

John raised an eyebrow at that and came to stand safely behind him.

“Sorry, I momentarily forgot you were a hundred years old.”

Paul turned and lightly punched him in the arm.

“Sod off. Come closer, she won’t bite you.”

“She might kick me, though.”

“Not unless you hurt her! Come on,” Paul insisted, signalling to him to sit on the stool he had just placed next to him.

John sat down ever so slowly, his eyes never leaving the calm cow in front of him. Trying hard not to laugh, Paul took his hand and brought it on the belly of the cow, keeping John from just pulling away. He made him caress her softly and could feel John’s hand gradually relax under his own.

“See?” Paul softly said. “Nothing to be scared of.”

“I’m not scared,” John retorted straight away – too fast. “I just don’t want to do it wrong, is all.”

“You won’t, just do like me.”

Paul started milking the cow, pressing on the udders with expert hands and explaining to John how to hold them in the process. After a while, John got over his apprehension and somehow managed to milk two cows one his own, even if Paul had to check behind him just in case. A couple of times, Paul stopped milking just to look up and watch John Lennon, in wellies and with (for some reason) hay in his hair, milking a cow in a northern French farm. He couldn’t help but smile to himself, amused by how his life had turned out. He liked it, using his hands and breathing fresh air. To stay sane he needed to keep himself busy, feel useful. And doing it with John by his side was just an enhancement he had greatly underappreciated in his past. 

After a good two hours of work, Paul finally finished with the last cow of the herd. He got up and yawned, stretching his sore limbs in the process. But he didn’t have time to finish stretching that a warm body came crashing into his, holding him tight. Finding himself unbalanced, Paul laughed and hugged John back. He smelled like hay, wood and coconut.

“What are you doing?” He kept laughing. 

“Sorry, it was too tempting,” John answered, his voice muffled since his head was buried in Paul’s jumper.

A noise in the distance made Paul snap his head up and he gently pushed John away. John looked up at him, a little hurt, before he followed Paul’s gaze and understood, taking a reluctant step back. A few seconds later, Émile was entering the barn with his hunched back and resting bitch face, a tiny calf in his arms.

“C’est bon, les gars, z’avez fini ?” (1) He asked them as he went to one of the tiniest enclosures, dropping the baby in the hay there.

“Oui,” Paul simply answered, showing Émile their two buckets and ignoring how John’s head was ping-poing between Émile and him.

Émile approached Paul and looked at the two nearly full buckets with an appreciative grimace.

“Bon, c’est pas mal, ça. J’ai plus besoin de vous, allez vous promener ou faire j’sais pas quoi,” (2) He told Paul, glancing at John. 

Paul nodded, not exactly sure he had actually understood all of that. He was far from fluent, and he hadn’t heard French in a long while already. But Émile still leaned a little into him, pointing his chin at John. 

“Il est un peu palot, ton frère. Devriez prendre le soleil un peu.” (3)

“Oui. Merci,” Paul confirmed.

Émile grinned at him, visibly amused by the confusion on John’s face. With a last wave he went back to his calf mooing behind them. Paul motioned for John to follow him and they left the barn, the cold sun piercing their eyes the second they stepped outside. It was already getting a bit lower in the sky.

“What did he say?” John asked when they were out of earshot. “I don’t understand a bloody thing when he talks. That cannot possibly be a real language."

“I’m not really sure. Something about going for a walk, and about the sun. He said something about you, too, I think.”

John frowned and stared at Paul, careful not to slip into a mud puddle in the process.

“What? What about me?”

He had hay in his eyebrow and in his hair, his shirt all rumpled and dirty, and, somehow, milk all over his pants. Paul took in his boyfriend’s dishevelled appearance and grinned at him. 

“He probably noticed that you look like a mess.”

John gaped at him and checked himself. 

“Shut your face! That’s not very nice, I’ll let you know. I’m doing my best here,” He dramatically exclaimed, taking a twig out of his hair. “_You_ are the countryman. I’m just a casualty.”

“How did you even end up with hay in your hair?” Paul laughed. Then, he stopped and put a hand on John’s arm to make him stop as well. “Here, let me.”

He started taking off the stranded twigs on his head while John just stood still, simply watching him with gentle eyes. Paul tried his best to focus on his task and not to be distracted by John’s pretty face. He did not want to let the situation get risky here of all places. This was to be their safe place, and he could not endanger that. But he had a feeling John was going to make being reasonable very difficult.

“That could make a good song,” John noted. “Hay in your hair. Try and take it off, before the cows gather round and hail to the sun.”

Paul burst out laughing, his hands dropping from John’s head. He quickly checked if they were alone and whispered:

“Are you planning on having sex in the cowshed?!”

John grinned smugly.

“You said it, not me.”

Paul snorted and lightly punched his shoulder in a bro-being-bros way, in case anyone could see them. Being reasonable was definitely not going to be easy.

Being back in Léchelle with John was extremely odd for Paul. It felt as if two parts of his world were colliding, parts he had never thought could exist at the same time. The person he had been on his first stay there was like a strange memory, as if it had not quite been him. Or at least, a very disturbed and confused version of him. Not an old man anymore, but not quite a young man again either. Torn between two incompatible lives. He had not been a Beatle, then, not a friend, not a father. Barely a son. He had been the most lonely he had ever been in his life. 

And now. Now… Now he had John with him, wearing old flannel shirts, his glasses pushed up on his head and eating rhubarb pie and pretending to understand Émile’s stories about the village. He had never seen John in such a context, ever. It was hard to believe that the all-dressed-in-white man who had chosen to live in a New-York skyscraper was the same as the scruffy-looking one sitting next to him who was willing to try out life in a farm, even if momentarily. And yet, they were the same person. As he watched John smile at Adèle who was giving him a new slice of pie, realization truly hit Paul. _They’re the same person_. It was a stupid statement, one he had sort of come to terms with since he had arrived back in the past, but it still shook him to the core. He did not fancy only this John, right now. When he thought back to all his memories with him, his feelings followed his mind. The feelings he felt right now worked as much for the scruffy-looking farm John as for the New-Yorker John, or for all the Johns in-between, including the obnoxious one, the soft one, or even the biting, resentful one. _He was the same person_. Had always been.

Paul kept staring, and said John turned to him with a raised eyebrow, with a sort of awkward expression on his face. He kept glancing at Émile, Adèle, and their daughters who were fighting to know who had the most chance to get a good grade for their history essay, oblivious to the adults around them.

“You all right, mate? You look like Jules when he’s constipated.”

Paul shook himself out of it, sending a apologizing smile to the others.

“Yeah, sorry. I was just lost in my thoughts. I’m a little tired. Adèle, tu as, um… toujours le guitare, um, à Madeleine ?”

“La guitare de Madeleine. Oui, je l’ai laissée dans la chambre du haut. Bon, j’espère que ça vous dérange pas de dormir ensemble par contre parce qu’on n'a qu’un seul lit. Mais j’ai rajouté une couverture au cas où.” (4)

Paul nodded. Guitar, bedroom, one bed, blanket. The message was clear enough. He pushed his chair and got up, grabbing his utensils to bring them to the kitchen.

“Super, merci beaucoup !” He answered. “You ready, Mike?”

When there was no reaction, he poked John’s shoulder. John, who was chewing his last bit of pie, looked up with first a confused expression that quickly turned into understanding.

“Oh! Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.”

Both brought their things in the kitchen (and Paul rushed to wash them before Adèle had time to yell after him that it was not his role) and fled upstairs. Their room was the same Paul had stayed in all those months before, right in front of the teenaged girls’. The walls were thin, and the doors not very strong so obviously nothing could happen in there, but it was still nice to be able to stay in the same room without it having the slightest chance of looking suspicious. As announced, an extra blanket was waiting on the bed, and Madeleine’s old (_very_ old, it was a miracle the thing had not broken in half yet) guitar was leaning against the wall in a corner. She had brought it to the house one day after it had slipped from Paul that he knew how to play it. He had never really dared playing in front of any of the Rouchaud household, but he was happy now to have a link to his passion, even here. To their passion.

John went to sprawl on the bed, pushing his shoes off of his feet and bringing his legs up on the sheets too.

“I am knackered,” He breathed out, closing his eyes. “Even looking after Julian is less tiring than this.”

Paul went to pick up the guitar, sitting cross-legged on the floor with it.

“I love how you compare your son to cows,” He mused.

A pillow landed on his head, making him huff in laughter. He threw a glance at John, who had turned to lay his head on his hand and watch Paul from his spot. His expression was both soft and amused. Paul threw the pillow back at him, making him fall backwards on the bed, before turning back to his guitar. He was fighting hard not to just go and kiss him right that moment. He started playing distractedly, and when he noticed what he was playing, his heart ached. His subconscious was ahead of him.

“You know, I… I wrote you a song, too,” He told John quietly.

John hummed from his spot.

“Did you, now? Is it about how great of a _friend_ I am? It’s ‘I’ll Follow the Sun’, isn’t it?”

Paul briefly frowned and glanced at him, but John was lying on the bed and he couldn’t see his face.

“What? No, no. It’s one I wrote, you know… later.”

At that John pushed himself up and turned to sit against the wall, still on the bed. His face that was so open a few moments ago was now unreadable.

“Play it.”

Feeling his throat suddenly going all dry, Paul slowly nodded. It was harrowing to play that song in any circumstance, but playing it directly to John was on a whole other level. He cleared his throat, lost time in finding the right position for his legs and arms, and threw himself in it the only way he knew how: with his whole soul.

“_And if I say I really knew you well_…” He started with a shaky voice, keeping his gaze focused on the guitar.

Despite the lump in his throat he pushed on in the quiet of the room, willing to finish it even if his nerves made it hard not to just start crying there and then. When he came to the end of the song, John was still not making any noise, and his lingering silence coupled with his serious gaze were both soothing and terribly unnerving. Paul was filled with a hundred emotions, none of which he could really grasp beyond the overwhelming sensation of grief. Unable to stand the silence any longer, Paul loudly put the guitar on the floor and turned to John with his chin up.

“That’s all. It’s a bit short, I know, but…”

“You’re wrong,” John cut him off.

Paul frowned at his poker face. 

“What?”

After another moment of silent observation, John pushed himself off of the bed and went to kneel right in front of Paul, his knees bumping into Paul’s thighs. Paul just watched him, his throat drier than ever and his whole body feeling like lead. Then, ever slowly, John brought up his hand to softly caress Paul’s cheek, a brief touch that was gone so quickly Paul was not sure he had not dreamt it.

“We’re not worlds apart. I think that… you’re the only person in the world who really sees me,” John explained carefully. “All of me.”

Paul swallowed with difficulty, unwanted tears swelling up in his eyes. In front of him, John frowned a little, and his fingers came up again to underline Paul’s eyes which refused to let the tears go.

“You wrote it when I died,” John said.

And it was not a question; there was not an ounce of uncertainty in his voice. But Paul found himself nodding anyway. He closed his eyes, unable to hold John’s intense gaze any longer, and a couple of reckless tears escaped that he quickly brushed away, unintentionally bumping into John’s hand in the process. Feeling suddenly embarrassed for grieving a person who was literally touching him, Paul laughed wetly. 

“Don’t you ever do it again,” He told him, trying to sound funny and failing miserably.

John kept watching him, and Paul suddenly noticed the sadness in his eyes.

“I’ll try not to,” His lover answered quietly.

Paul let out a deep breath, looking up for a bit to will the tears back inside his eyes.

“That’s not a satisfactory answer.”

John snorted softly, and the sound came like a sight for sore eyes to Paul’s aching heart. Paul reached out and kissed him as softly as he could, afraid John might disappear and turn out to be only a dream, a cruel memory, if he pushed too hard. But John’s hands came up to hold his face firmly and he hardened the closed-lip kiss, as if he’d sensed Paul’s fear and despair. As if he wanted him to know that he was here, that he was real. That he was _alive_. And Paul had never been so grateful to have him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have decided to cut the chapter in half not to have you wait for too long :)  
I hope this fluffy thingy will keep busy those of you who are quarantined (like me lol)  
and I will answer to your comments with the next chapter!
> 
> (1) All good boys, you have finished?  
(2) Alright, that's pretty good. I don't need you anymore, just go out for a walk or whatever.  
(3) Your brother is a bit pale. You should enjoy the sun a little.  
(4) Madeleine's guitar (she's just correcting his French). Yes, I left it in the upstairs bedroom. So, I hope you don't mind sleeping together because we have only the one bed. But I put you an extra blanket, in case.


	49. Chapter 49

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi!  
just want to say a massive THANK YOU to all of you :') i don't have the strength lately to answer to your messages one by one but i will, and you need to know that every single one of them goes straight to my heart. They boost my confidence and motivation even when i have none  
so thank you thank you thank you thank you  
i hope this chapter will keep you pleasantly busy in these troubled times!

Being in the country had an appeasing effect on Paul that he had never found anywhere else. When he was hands deep in the soil and his knuckles reddened by work, he felt weighted. Anchored. Music led him through the clouds where nature brought him closer to his own heart, his own skin and bones. He liked being busy, useful; to create things with his hands and to be able to see them, to see people use them and enjoy them. Lean on them. He liked having a purpose. 

He had tried over the days to share that enthusiasm with John, but things had not quite gone as smoothly he had hoped. Émile had entrusted them with various tasks at the farm, none of which being specifically complicated or time-consuming, but it had been enough for John to complain on a quite regular rhythm. At first it was the little nothings (the wind was too cold, the cows too agitated, the wood too hard) and then, relatively quickly, it was Paul himself who was not helpful enough, ‘too cheerful’, too controlling or downright 'bloody annoying'. Paul didn’t take it personally. On the contrary, each complain made him laugh, which in turn only made John angrier. He knew John, knew how big of a pain in the arse he could be when he was grumpy. And grumpy, that, he definitely was. 

But they had good moments, too. A lot of them. When they finished their tasks at the barn and went for a quiet walk in the countryside and that John would poorly imitate all the inhabitants of Léchelle, went they childishly fought to get to the bathroom first, when John tried to hop on a cow and ended up in the hay, when he ran off screaming that time Paul dropped a shrew in his lap during their little nap in the field, when Paul fell asleep every night with John’s arms around him and woke up every morning with his hair in his mouth or his heart under his ear. When John smiled, or laughed, or teased him and when he was quiet, lost in his own thoughts but his fingers always finding their place somewhere on Paul’s skin, whether it was the tip of his elbow in passing, the tiny space on his hip below his shirt, or his nape when they were alone and Paul was concentrated on reading the papers. Even if they did get mad at each other once in a while, it never lasted long, and soon after one of them would silently come back to the other – most of the time it was John, who cared less about his grudges than Paul could.

As he lied wide awake on his bed, on the morning of their last day, Paul stared unabashedly at the profile of his boyfriend. Even though Paul barely had his briefs on, John, who had always been more likely to get cold, was also wearing a white t-shirt. His hair was rumpled against the pillow, his right hand snuggled against his chest and his left hand nowhere to be seen. His forehead lightly touched Paul’s arm, and Paul had felt warm all over the second he had realized it. He was positively stunning. He was sound asleep and Paul wished they could just stay there all day and not have to face the outside world. Not to leave Léchelle in the early afternoon to fly back to London. Not to go back to their separate lives in their separate homes. When John softly sighed in his sleep, Paul reached out to caress his cheek and push the few rebellious hairs away. Reminiscing the few days they had passed in France brought back the memories of his own farm, back in the day. He had been very happy, over there. Of course there had been bad times too – Linda’s sickness, Martha’s and his other pets’ passing, his own depression. But overall, incredibly happy times. He dreamt for a while of what a life in such a place with John would look like, but he found it a tad hard to picture. John… he did not like outdoors life that much. Of course he had agreed to come there, but Paul suspected that he wished it had not been _there_. After all, he had never visited his Scotland property, not even when they were friends again. He had never shown the littlest interest in coming over, too, whereas Paul had visited him in New York a few times. He knew both situations were a bit different; coming back to England at all had been difficult for John for a while, but still… His hand froze on John’s cheek when his mind reached the inevitable conclusion of its reflection. John would have undoubtedly hated his old farm, and the life Paul had so cherished in the past would probably not fit his dreams for the future whatsoever. 

The thought unleashed a sudden wave of sadness inside of him, so brutal Paul did not know how to deal with it. All at once, looking at John’s face, hearing his calm breathing and feeling his heat against him was too much and Paul squirmed to break free of the blanket covering them both. In his haste to push himself back up, his head bumped into John’s which earned him a low groan. Every fibre of his being turned immediately apologetic at the sound and he froze.

“Careful or you’ll rip me nose off,” John grumbled half in the pillow. 

“Sorry,” Paul winced, bending over to drop a kiss on John’s cheek. “I meant to rip your whole head off.”

John snorted but a smile was slightly poking through his grumpy demeanour. A beam caught Paul’s eye. The sun was timidly pouring through the window.

“Come on, get up, it’s late already,” He said, sitting up. “The cows are waiting.”

But John merely groaned and snaked his arm over Paul’s lap, his fingers tightening on Paul’s waist. Snuggling his face deeper into Paul’s belly, he muttered unintelligible words.

“What?” Paul asked, trying to hide the amusement in his voice.

Every morning was the same. Every. Single. Morning.  
John slightly lifted his face to free his mouth.

“Cows can wait. Boner can’t.”

Paul looked at him with a straight face.

“You’re filthy. Now up, please. Up up up—”

He poked John’s shoulder relentlessly and was showered with more grunting until John finally relented and let go of his iron grip on Paul’s waist. Paul seized the opportunity right away, got up and dragged the blanket with him, leaving John out in the open and curling into a tight ball.

“Jesus Christ, stop it! Sod off with your cows, just let me sleep for fuck’s sake.”

“John,” Paul pleaded quietly. “Love, it’s our last day. Please.”

At that John uncurled and turned still sleepy eyes to Paul. Without a word, he slowly got up, shivering all over. Paul quickly one-arm hugged him and kissed the crown of his head before starting to get dressed with swift motions. He wanted to enjoy the day as much as humanly possible. They had promised Émile to milk the cows but after that they had the rest of the day free, and Paul intended to take John on a longer walk than usual, to show him an immense and lovely forest he had spotted a few months prior. Some alone time before being thrown back into the hectic London life. 

John burst out laughing, stopping in his tracks and marvelling at Paul’s offended face. In a tree nearby, a bird was peeping relentlessly.

“Why are you laughing? I’m serious.”

John took a deep breath to calm himself down. His eyes were shining with laughter.

“You’re collecting shillings,” He deadpanned. “That’s your great investment for the future. Shillings.”

“I mean, you know,” Paul started, crossing his arms on his chest in a defensive gesture. “It’s not an _investment_ investment. That will be for the stock exchange. But they won’t exist anymore in a few years, so it’s more like a—Stop laughing at me you git.”

Paul grabbed at John’s belly with both hands and his boyfriend lifted his arms in an apologetic gesture, although he was still laughing.

“Sorry, sorry! Argh stop that!” 

But Paul was on a quest, half-hugging half-tickling John. They were more alone than they had been in weeks: deep into the forest, only surrounded by trees, bushes and bugs for kilometres around. No one could see them, no one could judge them or interrupt them. They were completely free.

So he kept on teasing John and tickling him, anything to keep that blinding smile right there on his face. John was a valiant opponent and fought back as hard as anyone. They were both breathless and red in the face but Paul couldn’t care less. When John’s laughter briefly turned to coughing, he paused his attack and enjoyed the opportunity to try and catch his breath himself. He looked around, distracted by the bird peeping nearby, and his breath got knocked out of him again when he was suddenly tackled and pushed against a tree, arms coming over his chest to hold him in position. John was grinning smugly at him.

“Got you,” He said with a victorious tone. “You’re a right twat, you knew that?”

“And you’re pink as a peach.”

John levelled him with an unimpressed look.

“You need to go back to school. Peaches aren’t pink.”

“Shh, I don’t care. I’ll call you my little peach from now on.”

“I’ll call you ‘cowboy’, then,” John retorted with a raised eyebrow.

Paul snorted and leant a bit more comfortably against the tree.

“You always do that,” John noted with a lazy voice.

“Do what?”

John tapped Paul’s left hand. His thumb was hooked into his waistband. Paul barely had time to look back up that urgent lips crushed his. His eyes fluttered close and for a moment nothing else existed but John’s lips, his heavy breathing and the feeling of his fingers on Paul’s waist. They went at it for a while, until John pulled back and spoke quietly against Paul’s mouth.

“I want you to bugger me against that tree.”

“Oh my God,” Paul, unable to stop a chuckle from escaping.

John gave him a toothy smile in response before leaning in to kiss him. Soon Paul’s laughter turned to moans, and it even though it took a conscious effort to relax and not be on the lookout for intruders, he quickly gave himself over to John. Nipping, open-mouthed kisses travelled all over his neck and collarbones and when John’s words came back to his mind, Paul moved them around to sandwich John between the tree and him, to which John answered with a pleased moan. They quickly shoved the annoying clothes out of the way and Paul was ecstatic to see that John’s movements were just as impatient and rapturous as his own. It felt like liquid fire cursing through his veins; as if tiny balloons filled with confetti and butterflies kept erupting in his lower belly over and over again. It made his head spin and his breath get erratic, and although the knuckles of his hand were harshly scraping the bark in his attempt to protect John’s groin, he wanted to play this moment in a loop for the rest of his life. With John enveloped in his arms – closer, always closer – who was shaking and more vulnerable than he allowed himself to be with anyone else, Paul felt grounded, loved and euphoric. A transcendental experience gifted to him. It felt like they were both gods. 

When John realized – without even looking, as if he could just _feel_ it too – the state Paul’s hand was getting in, he grabbed it in his own hand and let out in a breath:

“The ground.”

Nothing else needed to be said. When he turned back around, Paul didn’t wait a second to capture his lips, his face and his waist, feeling like he could never get enough, never enough. John chuckled and pushed him backwards, gently at first then with more force until there was enough oxygen in Paul’s brain to understand he was actually supposed to lie down at some point. When he did, he inelegantly fell down backwards, taking John with him, which ended up with both of them lost in fallen leaves and twigs, laughing away the little air they had left in their lungs. It was messy, uncoordinated and it seemed like Paul’s flesh was attacked by rocks and bugs from all sides, but he did not care. All that mattered was John’s smile, his tongue teasing his and the heat of his skin. For a second of clarity Paul realized how _loud_ they were being, but knowing that they were in public and that yet they _could_ do it was even more exhilarating. When they were both done and John crashed down on him, Paul slid his hands across his sweaty skin and rolled over him, pinning him to the ground. With his shirt unbuttoned, his bedraggled hair, flushed face and his pants and briefs pushed to his knees, John was the impersonation of obscenity, and in that moment it blew up in Paul’s mind just how much he actually loved him. 

Feeling suddenly overwhelmed, Paul just stared at him, gaping and breathing hard. Words were stuck in his throat and for some reason he felt incredibly stupid and exposed, out here in the open under John’s tender scrutiny. 

“You okay?” John finally asked with a soft smile, his hand coming up to caress Paul’s chin. 

Paul caught his hand in his, revelling in the warm contact even though they were both clammy and overheated. He somehow managed to force a smile.

“Yeah. Yeah. Just…” His voice trailed out, frail and unguarded. “You’re beautiful.”

The loveliest of smiles slowly broke out on John’s face. After a sweet moment, it turned mischievous and all at once Paul was pushed off of him and the spell was broken. Air brutally flowed back into Paul’s lungs and his consciousness of time and space resumed. John started laughing and Paul did too, both of them lying on the forest floor like two teenagers who would have ditched school to make out in an abandoned field. Two teenagers who had a curfew and were supposed to go back home in time for dinner – which was basically the situation they were in. 

“Hey,” John suddenly said, raising only his head to look at Paul. “You arrived a year ago today. Happy time-travelling birthday.”

Paul thought it over and realized quickly he was right. 

“Jesus,” He breathed. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

John did not answer, and Paul did not know what to add either. Time had flown by, and yet so many things had happened in that year that it felt like several lifetimes had passed already. Thinking about it left Paul a bit amazed, stunned by the ironic string of events that had led him right here, in a French forest with a half-naked John Lennon. It seemed unreal and sometimes, he was not totally sure he was not just in a coma somewhere in the UK.

When he could hear John’s breathing had gone back to normal, he checked his watch and felt a pinch in his heart when he realized they needed to head back to the farm to have a quick lunch before Madeleine’s husband drove them back to the train station. The holidays were over – their bubble of peace brought to an end. Paul could only hope his dread of going back to London was the sole fruit of his anxious mind, and not of some ominous sentiment. He sat back up, getting rid of the twigs and buttoning pants and shirt to at least pretend he was presentable again. John silently started doing the same next to him, and Paul could swear melancholy and heartache were blanketing them both. Whether it was because of their departure or of John’s remark was not clear.

Even if some of his memories of the year 1966 had become somewhat fuzzy with time, there were a few milestones Paul could never possibly forget. 

Tara’s death was one of them. 

On the fatal date of December 18th, Paul only had one thing in mind: keep an eye on his friend and prevent his terrible fate. Thankfully Tara had either not noticed or chosen to overlook Paul’s frantic insistence and had accepted to spend the day with him, in the park and in Paul’s apartment, away from any possible danger. They walked, waited patiently at the stop, and avoided people. It was strange for them because they usually saw each other within large groups of people, or at exhibitions, parties, or just gatherings of any kind. However, even if for someone as social as Tara staying strictly one-on-one had to seem a little odd, he was an amiable lad and did not raise a single question nor complain for the whole day. Paul made him promise not to use his car for a couple of days; Tara laughed his whole heart out, but agreed under Paul’s assistance nevertheless. Paul drove him back home in the evening, and waving at the smiling face of his friend and seeing him go into the safe haven of his house released a buzzing feeling of relief through him. The next morning, he found a pointless excuse to call to check on him, and when he heard his youthful voice, he felt like he had finally done something right. Hope flourished in him and left him particularly cheery. Tara had not died; he would live long, and happy, and old just like he deserved. The future could be bent and changed, and that was the most reassuring news he could possibly encounter. 

Another day passed and no terrible news shook Paul’s world. As expected, being back to his everyday life was a harsh wake up call. For several nights in a row he had not been able to see John, as the other man was busy taking care of his son that he had not seen for nearly a week – a short amount of time once upon a time, but an amount that John would reluctantly admit was too long nowadays. Finding himself alone at night in his apartment was tough, but Paul was making up for it by spending as much of his time outside as possible during the day. He worked hard, wrote a lot, kept himself busy. It was pretty much similar to the train of life he used to have in his first youth, the main difference being that he could not _really_ go out with his lover, now. But he did hang out with him a lot at work, which had to count for something. 

Recordings were going alright, although apart from teasing Paul about his fading blue eye and now scratched knuckles, George barely talked to him at all. Or to Ringo, for that matter. Most of the time, when he talked (which in itself was quite rare) it was to John, or to Geoff, or George Martin. Paul tried not to take it personally. He knew coming to terms with the news Ringo and he had dropped on him was bound to take time, but it was hard nonetheless. Especially for Ringo, who was not used to see his friend give him the cold shoulder. Not that George was being cold to him – no one could ever be cold to Ringo, not really – but they definitely spent a lot less time together than before. During breaks, George would find an excuse to talk to someone else or quietly slip away outside to smoke. It seemed like he smoked a little less, but Paul had no means to find out if it was actually true or if George had just decided to humour them by not smoking _in front of them_ as much. He made a mental note to ask Pattie one of these days. 

It was odd to see him go automatically to John, too. These two were close – of course, they all were. But out of the six relationships between them, theirs had always seemed like the weakest link in Paul’s eyes. Maybe wrongly, but still. Following Ringo’s advice, Paul tried not to rush him into anything, be it a simple conversation or… well, _believing_ him. Time needed time. Hopefully George would be triggered into accepting the truth sooner than later. 

John and Paul, for once, were alone in the canteen of Abbey Road. They had all finished their lunch soon before, and while everyone had already gone back to the studio, Paul needed just a few minutes to write down a couple of lyrics they had thought of during the meal. As a loyal (boy)friend, John had stayed with him, which was thankfully not suspicious or weird at all since they had done the same thing dozens, hundreds of times before. Their writing partnership truly was a great cover at times.

Just as he finished writing the words down, Paul pushed the notebook aside and got up to get himself some coffee, making sure to drop a kiss on John’s cheek beforehand. John simply hummed and from the corner of his eye, Paul could see he was toying with the notebook. The thing was all torn up at this point and barely had any pages left that did not have scribbles all over it.

“You can read it, if you want,” He said, not thinking anything of it.

“Yay!” John exclaimed, which made Paul snort.

Paul turned to his coffee maker and for a moment, everything was quiet behind him expect for the odd turning of a page, proving John was religiously reading. When the silence went on for a suspiciously long time, Paul turned back around. John had both his elbows on the table and his mouth was covered by his fists, making it difficult to guess his expression.

“Hun?” 

John looked up and… he was blushing. The sight made Paul grin, although he did not connect the dots. 

“You’re smitten with me,” John piped when he finally lowered his fists.

“What?!” Paul chuckled, feeling his ears and neck warm up.

John raised an eyebrow and started reading the page he was at out loud.

“’_What I want concerning John. Keep him safe, make music, talk about anything_’—”

When Paul finally realized what was going on he rushed to John to pry the notebook out of his hands. John laughed and turned around, one hand pushing Paul away and the other holding the notebook as he kept reading.

“’_His hands, his smell’… ‘Watch him sleep? Unless it’s too creepy_’,” He went on, laughing like a maniac. “And _I’m_ the creepy one?!”

“Give it back!” Paul demanded, although he was laughing too (and burning of shame) and struggled to put his hands on John who just seemed to slid away like an eel at every turn.

“Oh, here’s my favourite part,” John continued, beaming. “’_Kiss him kiss him kiss him. Sex'_, and then you crossed out '_maybe not all of it_’. And then, oooh... the absolute best part: just ‘_yes_’.”

He burst out laughing again and Paul finally plucked the notebook out of his hands. As he stood back up, he pushed John’s grinning face away with his free hand.

“Shut up.” Then, quieter just in case: “And I’m not kissing you anymore. You’re too annoying.”

“Oh come on! Please. I’ll be good I promise,” John falsely whined, his giant smile contradicting his tone.

Paul simply raised an eyebrow and put the notebook back on the table, realizing his coffee was probably cold by now. 

“Don’t touch it,” He warned John as he went to the counter. 

“Come on, there’s nothing embarrassing left. I’ve read it all already.”

Paul did not even bother to look back at him to mutter:

“You’re a menace.”

John laughed. Paul sipped on his coffee – lukewarm – and started looking for some milk. He had nearly forgotten about the notebook when John’s soft voice rose again.

“Blimey. Your dreams are terrifying.”

Paul chuckled sadly but kept on stirring his coffee. When it was finally done, he picked the cup up and turned back around to face John.

“Strangely, they seem less scary once they are written down,” He explained.

But John did not respond. His eyebrows were caught in a frown, probably a bit spooked out by Paul’s nightmares. After a while, he looked up at Paul.

“I don’t understand. The part with us fighting about the tape- When did you write that?” He asked, sounding a bit odd.

Paul frowned back at him.

“I don’t know, a few weeks ago. Why?”

John looked at him for a moment with an unreadable expression, then went back to the notebook. Paul wanted to press him but when John spoke up again, he was left speechless.

“It’s not a dream.”

Silence met his words for a long, awkward pause. 

“Um… yes, it is. I had it a couple of times, even before I came back here. That’s… what- what do you mean?” Paul struggled to question. 

When he stopped talking, John was staring at him again with that strange expression and Paul started to feel uncomfortable. 

“Stop staring at me, please.”

“I’m trying to understand whether you’re taking the piss or not.”

“Of course n—”

“_This_ is not a dream, Paul,” John interrupted him, shaking the notebook in his direction. “It happened. It’s a real fucking memory.”

Paul froze. It was his turn to be confused, but judging by John’s serious face, he was not joking either. The details of his dream floated back to his consciousness.

“That… makes no sense. The tape all over it, that’s—that’s dream stuff. You know, things that only make sense in a dream.”

John rubbed his forehead and put the notebook aside. For some reason he looked upset, and that left Paul even more distressed. He felt like there was something he was completely missing. Something huge and crucial. 

“I just told you it’s not a bloody dream. This happened to you. To me. Last year, when we were on tour. I pulled a prank on you and then you got all miffed about it. Bit my head off. You… you really don’t remember?”

Paul shuffled on his feet. His legs were starting to feel tired but he did not dare go and sit next to John. The coffee was back on the counter, long forgotten. The moment felt too suffocating even though he could not pinpoint the reason why.

“I mean… that was so long ago. I’m sorry, I really don’t. Must have been before I came back.”

John didn’t answer, and was now avoiding Paul’s eyes. Something was definitely wrong. A headless detail came back to Paul.

“You looked so sad, though. In my dream. It’s weird that in it you were not, you know. Screaming at me.”

At first John didn’t react, then he just shrugged a bit unhelpfully. Although Paul guessed there was nothing to answer to that. Paul finally summed up the courage to come closer and sat on the drawn chair next to John, slipping a cautious hand on his thigh.

“I’m sorry,” He repeated.

“’S alright,” John shrugged. “It was nothing anyway.”

He picked up the notebook and handed it to Paul.

“There. We should go back to the studio.”

Paul took the notebook and nodded. He didn’t need convincing. Music would do good to the both of them. Music was always there for them.

A few hours later, Paul was exhausted but relatively satisfied with the work they had managed to get done. John had been oddly quiet all afternoon, but Paul had tried to silently ask him if he was alright he had smiled back at him and mouthed at him not to worry. It was hard, but Paul tried to obey. 

Rare occurrence in these days, George and Paul were at the moment alone in the engineer’s room, talking together over a few details about George’s guitar solo in the song. Nearly all the team had gone home already, and the two of them were a bit late to pack up their things and leave. Paul did not know if John had left yet. He assumed he hadn’t, since they hadn’t said goodbye, but it happened sometimes that one of them got caught up in a conversation and could not (or forgot) say bye to the other. In those times, Paul cruelly missed his cell phone.

George and he were still talking when heavy steps warned them of someone’s incoming, the someone turning out to be Ringo. He entered the room and stopped to look at them both, his breath falling short for some reason and the second Paul saw his drawn face, he knew something was wrong. Awfully, awfully wrong. 

Silence went on for a few moments, until George piped up with a tense voice:

“Everything alright?”

Ringo cleared his visibly dry throat and slightly shook his head.

“It’s Tara,” He let out with difficulty, emotion twirling on his face.

A few seconds of heavy silence followed. Paul’s mind went blank.

“No,” He said simply, his clear voice sounding alien to his own ears. “No, no. I was with him on the 18th. All day. And I called him the next morning and he was fine. He was _fine_.”

“Paul—” 

“He was fucking FINE,” Paul asserted in a considerably louder voice, making George startle next to him.

“What’s going on? Ringo, what—?” George asked, sounding very confused.

“Tara’s dead.” Paul said dispassionately. His eyes were not leaving Ringo’s blue ones. “He’s fucking dead. Isn’t he?”

“What?!” George stuttered.

“He got electrocuted in his bath,” Ringo confirmed. “I’m so sor—”

Then, coming out of nowhere with a force Paul would have not been able to handle if he’d tried, a painfully dry laugh bubbled out of him. It was so loud it startled both of his friends, but Paul was helpless against it. Tears swelled at the corners of his eyes and his stomach twisted violently. After a few seconds, as quick as it had arrived, the laughter died out and left Paul hollow and cold.

“You knew,” George stated calmly in the silence, and the weight of his words fell over the three of them, suffocating. “You knew it would happen.”

Paul stared back at him and words were not needed for George to understand the answer. He paled visibly, his eyes losing their focus for a moment. Paul knew he understood it, intimately. And understanding it was the opening gate to an ever more overwhelming certainty: the confirmation that Ringo and he had travelled back in time.

After a long moment of silence that Ringo apparently didn’t dare to break either, George swallowed audibly and licked his lips repeatedly. When he spoke to Ringo, his voice was quieter than Paul had ever heard it.

“Where’s John? Does he know?”

The question was loaded, and for a brief, cruel moment Paul forgot George didn’t even know just how much; he had no idea John might die 14 years later and that no one might be able to do anything to prevent it, now. 

“No,” Ringo answered quietly. “I just got the call. I don’t know where John is.”

“Don’t- don’t tell him we knew. I’ll handle it. Please,” Paul suddenly told them, meeting Ringo’s worried gaze head on. 

George numbly nodded but Ringo shook his head, dismissive.

“Paul, are you okay?” He asked earnestly. He glanced discreetly at George’s still pale and confused face. “Do you… we can talk about it later, if you want? I know it’s a lot…”

“No,” Paul answered abruptly. “No need, don’t worry.”

“I really think we should—”

Paul got up, his chair scraping loudly and cutting Ringo off. 

“I said no,” He repeated coldly, unable to stop himself from throwing a dark look at his friend. “There’s nothing to talk about. Alright?” He pushed the chair back in its place. “I’m going home. Tell John I’ll call him later.”

Ringo clenched his jaw but didn’t answer. That was consent enough for Paul, who simply went to pick up his bag, scarf and coat, slipping them on with sharp movements and royally ignoring his two friends. His head felt numb, drowning in a crackling grey cloud. He did not know what he was feeling, what he was thinking. He only knew he needed to get out of here, and fast. He needed to be alone to be able to even begin to grasp his freaking feelings. 

And most of all, he needed to leave before he risked seeing John’s face, and crumble. 

Paul did not sleep a wink that night. When he had gotten back home, he was enraged and had spent a good while screaming in a cushion and straining not to break every single item of his house. He had even scared poor Martha and Thisbe, and he had not seem them all evening. After having calmed down enough to call John and announce him the news as detachedly as he could, he had gone to lie down on his bed, and from then on, had not moved an inch for hours. He was staring at the wall and screaming internally at the universe for taking his friend away a second time. He could not believe the cruelty of it all and struggled to grasp its reality. It was just like Cleveland all over again: a ridiculous and sickening twist of fate, but a thousand times worse. Looking after Tara had been useless. Purely useless. Knowing Tara would die and try to prevent it had only give the man two more days to live. And for what? To die electrocuted in his own bath, an even sadder and all in all a more pathetic death? Thinking that of his friend’s passing made him miserable, and even guiltier. Once again he could not even mourn properly, blinded by the rage and the feeling of helplessness. He was devastated by the loss, of course he was. But he could not make his death about Tara, not even if he tried. Not even when he wanted to punch himself for it.

No. All he could think about was John. 

The deceiving feeling of safety he had felt during their stay in France felt like a remote souvenir. The memories of John’s death, of the pain that had followed him for years afterwards was in a loop in his head, each time scarier, each time more hurtful. What had become a distant trauma he had been trying to grow from was once again a very likely possibility. No matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried to make things right, to protect John, he could end up dead. Shot, run over by a car, it didn’t matter. Fuck, he could be pecked to death by pigeons at this point. It didn’t look like God or the universe cared at all as long as the dead still ended up dead. 

As he kept thinking and dwelling on it, other worrying facts came back to him. The letter. The neighbours, and the drunk lads near the chippy. Brian’s warnings had never felt so ominous. 

And what about Brian? Would he end up overdosing anyway, despite the fright of Paul’s accident, and the reassurance Paul (and Ringo, surely) had tried to give him about his future, his work, their trust in him? Just imagining his manager meeting a new gruesome fate made him sick. He could not let it happen. He _could not_. He needed to save them, both of them, somehow. There had to be a way. Rage and determination filled him once again as he clenched his fist on his bedsheets. He would not let them die. 

He would not lose John again. 

The next morning found Paul jittering and severely sleep-deprived. He had the day to himself, John being busy with an aunt visiting him, and had dimmed the occasion perfect to kill two birds with one stone. If he wanted to save both John and Brian, he needed two things: to push away any external threat to John’s life, and to make sure Brian would not fall into as deep of a depression as he had in the past. He was no psychiatrist, but if he knew one thing about Brian, it was that the man loved to be busy and to feel useful. To have a goal, a purpose. And Paul might just give him one. It was high time Paul asked for the help Brian was so willing to offer. 

Brian had agreed to meet him at his office despite the short notice, and as he waited in the corridor of the NEM offices, he tried his hardest to keep his legs from shaking too hard. Drinking five coffees before coming had probably not been his best idea to date. The paper rustling in his pocket was just painful another reminder of his troubles.

When the door finally opened to reveal Brian’s calm face, Paul used the little strength he had left to force a smile. He followed him inside and barely heard him asking him about his pale complexion and apologizing about something or another. It felt like the man was always apologizing to him, and it made Paul feel even guiltier. Following Brian’s invitation, he sat in the chair in front of his desk, face to face with him, and raked his exhausted brain for the best words to describe his request.

“I need you,” He started bluntly. “We’re… we’re not careful enough. John and I.”

An awkward silence met his words. Paul was usually quite eloquent, although sometimes uncoordinated in his explanations. Feeling so out of himself only aggravated his exasperation at the whole situation. 

“Um. Alright. Do you want me to… lecture you…?” Brian finally answered with a soft, unsure voice. 

“No, of course n— Sorry. No,” Paul answered, rubbing his forehead. 

He was embarrassed, which was aggravated by the fact that he couldn’t really comprehend why. A sad frown had taken over Brian’s face.

“What’s wrong, Paul?” He asked – so quiet, so genuinely worried that Paul was overwhelmed with the temptation to confess everything at once.

But he couldn’t. In front of his silence, Brian sighed and started speaking again, still as quiet.

“I’m… Look, I may have come across as a bit… alarming, last time we talked, but I only have your best interests at heart. Yours and John’s. I probably…” He stopped, breathed deeply. “Overreacted, slightly. I see that now. You are not children and I should trust you to know what you are doing. But trust works both ways. The thing is, I don’t understand. I don’t understand what’s going on with you but you are different. You weren’t like that before, that… distrustful. Cautious. It looks like you don’t know me anymore. I don’t know what happened to you and I understand you would rather keep it private, but if I ever did anything that—”

“No, no,” Paul interrupted him, shaking his head, his throat feeling dry. “You didn’t do anything. It’s me, I… I have been thinking, a lot, about… who we are, and what we are doing, and I have been stupid about it. I have hurt you, and my dad, John… even George, and I’m not proud of it. I’m sorry. I trust you, Brian, probably more than most people in my life. I’m just… Fuck, I’m scared.”

He stopped, feeling suddenly unable to talk more. Funny how life was – he, who used to talk everyone’s head off all the time, now found it hard to find words.

“I don’t know if you’ve heard, but my friend Tara Browne died. He was… Jeez, he was only 21. And it made realize just how… important, life is. How fragile. No matter what we do.”

He breathed deeply and looked around him, a new habit he seemed to have acquired recently. Brian was right; he had changed, and perhaps he had not quite fully realized to what extent. As if he just knew Paul was not finished yet, Brian kept watching him silently, his hands crossed over his desk. He looked like a patient teacher, and Paul loved him dearly.

“Look, don’t lose your mind, but I received a threat,” He told him, feeling like it was high time he shared that information. “An anonymous letter. And it was quite specific, about me being… you know. Not straight.”

Brian’s frown deepened and got out of his silence.

“Did you tell the police?”

Paul shook his head, feeling ashamed now. And as expected, Brian’s frown turned a bit disapproving.

“Paul, this is serious. Why didn’t you say anything? When was it?”

“A few weeks ago. I don’t know, I thought… I was stupidly thinking that if I ignored it, it just wouldn’t be an issue.” He self-deprecatingly ironized. Then, searching in his pocket and handing the letter to Brian: “Here, I kept it. I thought you might want to take a look at it.”

Brian nodded and took the letter, seemingly lost in thoughts. 

“Yes, please, if you don’t mind. But we should still go to the police. Did it mention John? What does he think about it?”

Paul bit his lip and he could see the moment Brian understood by the way he slightly tilted his head. Feeling the disapproval come up to the surface, Paul rushed to explain. 

“I didn’t want to worry him! It was finally working between us—”

“And you thought lying to him was a good way to preserve that?” Brian intervened, not beating around the bush.

Paul shook his head. He did not know how to make Brian _understand_. 

“I just want to keep him safe. That’s all that matters. I realize now how… you know, how truly terribly things can turn out and I’m. I’m terrified something might happen to John. I know I seem mental, but believe me, your worry might not be so badly-placed.”

He paused, took a breath. He could not bring himself to hold Brian’s serious gaze. 

“I don’t care what it takes. I don’t care if he gets mad at me,” He added finally. “I just want him to be safe.”

“I know,” Brian affirmed quietly. 

Silence grew between them. Paul was lost in his reflection, confused on how to handle the situation. Every possibility seemed like a bad solution and his head ached. Thoughts twirled in his mind until a tiny idea popped up, growing up unchecked. When it bubbled out of his lips, it felt like it was the only unravelment that could actually impact things.

“You said… you said there were rumours. About John, about who he is. More so than about me. I know he’s still technically married and all, but… Do you think me having a PR girlfriend would make things safer? For him?”

Brian thought for a moment then shook his head; but it seemed it was more of apparent uncertainty than of anything else.

“I don’t know, truthfully. Maybe. Anything that substantiates the narrative of you two having distinct relationships does take the focus out of yours. But it’s… it’s a pretty extreme solution. I wouldn’t advise you to do it. I think things can go fine if you are just mindful in public events and avoid sneaking into each other’s houses all the time.”

Paul could hear the words and appreciate their meanings, but none of them appeased the blazing worry in his guts and his mind. 

“But would it help?” He probed, his voice tight.

Brian studied his face a little longer, then softly sighed. 

“Yes. Yes, I supposed it would.”

Paul bit the inside of his cheek and leant the tiniest bit closer. 

“Could you… could you make it happen? Soon? Like just, you know… not something too invasive, but enough to drive off any prying eyes?”

When Paul understood the emotion behind Brian’s eyes was akin to pity, his skin pricked with embarrassment. 

“Don’t look at me like that.” He chuckled without humour. Then, feeling like he was ripping his protective armour off of his whole being, he added: “Please. I need… I don’t know what else to do. I can’t sleep.”

Brian breathed deeply and nodded. 

“Alright. I’ll find someone – some arrangement. But this is not a fatality, okay? It’s just a temporary solution. We’ll find a better one. You two will live together happily, I promise. I’ll do everything I can to help you.”

Feeling a bit choked up, Paul nodded with a tight smile.

“Thank you.”

He had rarely meant it more.

The following day, Paul found it unusually hard to concentrate on work. They were working on ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’ again and apart from the odd comment here and there, he kept quiet most of the day, brooding on his corner and repeating the conversation with Brian over and over in his head. He couldn’t help but stare openly at John far more frequently than discretion would have him, and every time he did so, anguish tore his soul apart. 

As the day finally came to an end, Paul was uncharacteristically relieved. It was the 22nd of December, their last day of recording, and also the last time Paul would see John before Christmas since he had promised his dad he would drive back to Liverpool as soon as the next day. John had apparently planned a ‘romantic candlelit dinner’ for him (even though they were to stay at Paul’s flat) and Paul wished his anxiety allowed him to be more genuinely enthusiastic about it. John had noticed his sour mood – of course he had, but for some reason he had not probed further apart from the quiet ‘are you okay’ once in a while. Paul guessed he was not the only one not to like confrontation. 

He was alone in the recording studio, taking his time to pack up his things while John had gone to the bathroom when Ringo popped in the room. Paul was surprised as he thought Ringo had left already – he had spent the whole day looking unwell, claiming he was tired. Paul smiled at him by reflex but Ringo did not smile back. It looked like he didn’t have enough strength to. Anxiety gripped at Paul’s heart when he had a sensation of déjà-vu with their conversation of a few days before. 

“You alright?” Paul checked with a frown.

Ringo stopped in front of him, put his hands on his hips, sighed. He looked strangely nervous.

“I wanted to tell you all day: you should come over at mine tonight,” He stopped, looked around as if to check if they were truly alone. Then he added: “I found another chapter. I’m not sure yet how it can help us but I think it’s a good lead.”

Paul swallowed with difficulty, finding his throat had dried up.

“You talk like a detective,” He chuckled, failing at sounding cheerful.

Ringo smiled indulgently but Paul knew without a doubt that he saw right through him. One of the blessed drawbacks of having lived the same extraordinary event. Understanding there was no way for him to escape that conversation, Paul nodded. 

“Okay. I’ll come. Just… a bit later, if that’s okay with you? John’s coming over for dinner.”

“Sure, of course,” Ringo consented. “Just come up whenever you can.”

“Ringo, are you sure you’re okay?” Paul insisted when he saw his friend starting to leave already.

Ringo turned back around, still slowly walking backwards.

“I’m fine, don’t worry. I just… spent all night lost in me head, you know how it is. See you later.”

And with a last nod, he left Paul alone with his thoughts and his lyrics sheets.

When John finally got back from the bathroom, they headed to Paul’s car together, as discreetly as ever. John was talking about Christmas, about the maracas he had bought for Julian (‘I regret it already. Why did I get the most annoying instrument ever?’) while Paul listened quietly. Or rather, listened with one ear. He couldn’t get Ringo’s discovery out of his head. He wondered what was in the chapter. Did it explain how Briony Fellness had arrived back in the past? How? Did she say anything about her return to the future? Not knowing made his skin prickle with apprehension. What if they did find a way home? It would be incredible. A wish come true. It would be… it would be a good thing, right? He kept trying to decipher his own feelings, but even if there were a dozen of them spinning inside of him, happiness was not among them. He did not feel happy. He did not even feel relieved. He just felt… guilty. Of what precisely, he could not fathom. It was too soon, too fast. _But you’ve been here for a year_, his mind unhelpfully supplied. Yes. Yes, and yet…

As they were stopped at a light, their car the only one on the dark avenue, John’s story came to a pause and Paul enjoyed the occasion to observe his profile. He could not picture a life without him anymore. The thought alone of going back to a world where he was dead churned his stomach. But would he even have a choice…? He had no idea what he was dealing with and the uncertainty drove him mad. He did not want to leave him. He did not want the pain. More selfishly, he did not want to have to choose. And what would even happen to John if he left? Would he survive? Would he grow old, and happy…? 

Would he find someone who loved him as much as Paul loved him?

As the light turned to green, Paul turned his head back to the road but stood frozen with the wheel between his hands. He felt more than he saw John’s eyes on him, but his boyfriend did not say anything – or if he did, Paul could not hear him. He saw in a flash John’s pained face when he had told Paul he had written him songs. His cautious and tired eyes the morning after he had told Paul he was in love with him. His embarrassment every time Paul brought up the topic.

And suddenly, it him. 

_John might not know_. 

After everything they had been through, everything they had shared… He might still not know. And that made the edges of Paul’s mind go fuzzy with heartache.

“It’s not unrequited, you know,” He said with a wavering voice, not daring to look at John.

He stopped, breathed deeply. Cleared his throat. His heart was beating deafeningly in his ears, drowning everything else in a pulsating white noise.

“I’m in love with you too,” He concluded at last. “I really am.”

For the longest moment, nothing happened. Then, unnerved by the silence permeating the car, he finally looked up at John, swallowing with difficulty. He could not understand why everything was so harder with him. Why words felt so heavy they barely let him breathe. 

But John was simply watching him, something very soft and yet hard to read in his eyes. He parted his lips, hesitated. After a long while, he slowly nodded.

“I know.”

Even if he would have been completely unable to explain why, Paul instinctively knew it was not true. He also knew John loved him enough to pretend it was, even just for his sake. And Paul found himself so utterly overwhelmed that he could do nothing but nod too and start the car. 

If his hands were shaking, nobody needed to know.


	50. Chapter 50

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you infinitely @macca-is-art for helping me with the image and putting up with my whining because i can't make anything work ever ❤️  


Paul was waiting in the car, tapping his fingers on his thigh and absently rubbing with lips with his other hand. The rain was jangling regularly on the hood of the car and the disturbing noise was strangely soothing. It was getting dark already, and he was pretty tired; the mere idea that he was to go to Ringo’s after their dinner gave him a headache and tightened the knot in his stomach. He felt like his mind was tired of thinking, his flesh tired of feeling. He wanted to sleep, and to eat, and never to talk to anybody about anything ever again.

Except, perhaps to John.

Movement in his left periphery made him turn his head and sure enough, John was getting back into the car, shaking off his wet hair and putting a big basket covered with foil on his lap. He took quite some time to settle comfortably in his seat before pushing his lengthening hair out of his face, taking off his glasses to clear up the fog and droplets and turning an expectant face to Paul. But Paul simply watched the basket, then him, and raised a quizzical eyebrow. John followed his gaze and gave a little mysterious smile that did not quite reach his eyes.

“It’s a surprise. Just drive,” He told Paul.

Paul raised both eyebrows this time and moved his hands in position. He glanced to John again and murmured:

“Seatbelt.”

When no reaction came, he threw an exaggeratedly annoyed look at John. John stubbornly held his gaze for a moment before he sighed very loudly and reached for the seatbelt. Paul smiled knowingly to himself and finally started the car.

They drove in silence for a while, and Paul liked how comfortable it was. John was a loud, obnoxious person who at most times didn’t like to sit still, who didn’t like blanks in conversations and embarrassed interludes (well, less than Paul himself), and Paul was happy to witness once again that with him, he didn’t need to put on his all-out persona. That they could just be together, quietly. Just hear the other breathe and be there, and for it to be enough. More than once he felt John’s gaze on him, dissecting his skin and peaking at his soul – or trying to, anyway. He knew what he was thinking, or rather he had a very good idea of what he had to be thinking about. He probably wondered how much Paul meant what he had said. If he meant it at all. He knew it because he had wondered the same thing not so long before, and he had never been even half as insecure as John could be about people’s opinions about him.

As the words swirled back to the front of his mind, it stunned him how long it had taken him to recognize the truth of their meaning. It was as if he had not _really_ known he loved John until the very moment he had told him and as if he had known it his whole life at the same time. There was no beating around the bush though, was there? No matter how much he thought common words failed to describe what they were together, what John meant to him, love surely was the one closest to the truth. The one that grazed it as much as any word could. He doubted any language would ever be fit to represent it. Having John in his life had been like a constellation, always there in the back, either shining brightly or dimly, but never disappearing years after years after years. He had spent most of his awake days with John for the time he had known him, and had carried him inside him long after their separation, long after his death, the fire never ceasing to burn and revive. It had been love all along – the only difference was that now he could truthfully said he knew it to be romantic love. Even though the more he thought about it, the more he didn’t think it made any difference. There was no rule. Or if there was, it didn’t apply to them. After all, their very love defied the rules of time itself.

Smiling to himself at the thought, he finally turned at his street and slowed the car, sleep starting to tear at the skin of his eyes and the tendons in his shoulders. It was only then, as they were both exiting the car and closing its doors, that Paul realized how uncharacteristically quiet John had been the whole ride. Probably lost in his own thoughts, but still, it made Paul feel a little odd.

They rushed to enter the building under the rain and got up to his floor in silence, the basket still in John’s arms. Paul opened his front door, sparing as usual a little glance at his neighbours’ door and they entered the flat. Martha came up to greet them right away, and Paul smiled at the fluffy ball of happiness. John petted Martha too and went straight to the kitchen. Paul watched him go with a raised eyebrow, still squatting in front of his dog.

“You need help?” He called out to John.

The answer came a second late – just to leave enough time for John to drop the visibly heavy basket, as it sounded.

“No. Stay away.” John answered with a strong voice. Then, as in an afterthought: “Please.”

Paul chuckled to himself and took off his shoes and coat. He dragged himself to the living-room and just dropped onto the couch, Martha coming to jump on him (and she was starting to get quite heavy) and knocking the air out of him. He peered up when a quiet “mrrrraw” resonated near his head and saw Thisbe stretching her back and coming closer to him on the back of the couch. Reaching an arm out at an odd angle because of his lying position, he tried to pet her head but ended up brushing the little hairs in reverse, which caused Thisbe to pull back with a shake of her head. If she had been able to, she probably would have grimaced at Paul’s lack of elegance in the art of petting. But Paul was tenacious if anything, and he twisted his body a little to catch the cat before she was able to run away. He brought her on his chest, sort of forcing her to stay on him and to accept his affection. Martha, between his legs, kept licking his hand and waving her tail excitedly against the armrest of the couch.

He was so comfy and content, right there with his pets, enjoying their purring and heat, that he was almost surprised when John’s voice reached through his bliss from the kitchen.

“Okay I have finished but don’t come into the kitchen yet.”

Paul simply hummed and heard John’s feet leave the kitchen and go into the corridor. From where he was lying, with his back to the hallway, he couldn’t see him but he didn’t mind. He was very close to falling asleep, he could feel it. Maybe he could just ring Ringo and tell him he’d come another day. Whatever was in the chapter, it could not be _that_ urgent, could it? Maybe they could talk about it later. When Paul wasn’t so dead on his feet, and when his couch wasn’t that warm and comfortable…

A hand in his hair slowly woke him up (it was becoming a pattern, and Paul secretly loved it), and he opened fluttering eyes to find John standing next to the couch and smiling softly at him. He had changed into one of Paul’s sweater – his own having probably been too wet from the rain. Paul had the reflex to try and straighten up but Thisbe was now rolled in a ball on his chest.

“We can do it another night if you want to sleep,” John told him in a near whisper, as if inciting him to fall back asleep.

Paul shook his head and gently grabbed Thisbe to put her on the couch.

“No, I’m here. Right. Ready,” He answered a bit nonsensically.

He got up, his limbs all heavy, and stood up in front of John, who simply watched him with the little, private smile he loved so much. Paul smiled sleepily at him, fully aware that he probably looked goofy with his half-opened eyes and his wet hair sticking to his forehead. John dropped a quick, soft kiss on his lips and grabbed his arm, and it was only then that Paul noticed he had Paul’s Polaroid camera in his other hand.

“Turn around,” He told Paul.

Paul frowned but obeyed, and just when he found himself facing the wall, John clumsily slipped his hand over his eyes, bumping into Paul’s nose and nearly blinding him with one of his fingers.

“What the—ow!”

“Sorry,” John chuckled, and his breath tickled Paul’s nape. “Close your eyes.”

“Yeah, you should have started with that.”

A short laughter bubbled out of John and with his wrist on Paul’s waist (his fingers being busy holding the camera) he slowly guided Paul to the kitchen – making him bump his shin into one of the living-room chairs in the process, prompting Paul to raise his arms in front of him in a poor attempt to protect himself against the dangers of his apartment. It was an awkward journey, and Paul felt his shin burning him already, but he could tell they had finally reached the kitchen when the floor sounded differently under his feet and that a delicious smell reached his nostrils. Something sweet and spicy he couldn’t quite identify. John made him stop visibly in the middle of the room.

“Uh… okay, yeah, I need to let you go but don’t open your eyes,” John told him.

“Alright,” Paul answered amiably.

John’s heat started to fall off from Paul’s face, making him scrunch his nose by reflex although he did keep his eyes closed.

“Don’t open them!” John repeated.

“Yeah, they’re closed.”

He heard John stepping away from him and he strived not to open his eyes despite the strong urge to.

“Alright, open them when I tell you. I’m going to count down, okay?”

Paul squirmed on his feet and merely hummed.

“Paul.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay! Jesus,” Paul chuckled.

“Okay. Three, two… one!”

Paul opened his eyes, a bit blinded by the light for a micro-second, and his gaze was immediately attracted by the table. Or rather, what was _on it_.

“Oh my—” He started, his mouth gaping.

A flash surprised him and he quickly looked up at John, still gaping. His lover was grinning at him while the camera was whirring in his hands. Paul looked down at the table, then back at John again.

“How!?” was all he could say.

And ‘how’ was the right word: for on the table was lying a proper feast, with several multi-coloured fuming dishes laid out in plates and bowls, all looking very appetizing, and a few candles lit among them. It would not have been particularly surprising had it not been—

“Is that Chinese food?” He asked John, a bit astounded.

“Taiwanese,” John specified. Then, off to Paul’s shocked gaze: “You once said that you liked it. With Ringo. Or is that… was it not that…?”

When uncertainty creeped into his voice, Paul rushed to him and gently grabbed his face to plant loud kisses on his mouth, his chin and his cheeks.

“God. You are. The best,” He told him in-between kisses. “This is amazing, I love you so much.”

He finally let go of John’s face, smiling like a madman and feeling his heart beaming in his chest. His boyfriend was slightly gaping and staring at him with a marvelled expression. His eyes kept floating between Paul’s eyes and his lips and an unsure smile flickered on his mouth.

“Wow. Twice in a day, huh,” He embarrassedly chuckled in the end, his eyes remaining a tad longer on Paul’s lips, as if he was not totally sure Paul had actually spoken to him. “You must love me very much so.”

Paul smiled coyly and lightly punched him in the arm.

“Shut up.” He snorted. Then, turning to the food again. “Where did you find it?”

“Freda has a friend whose mother is Taiwanese. Asked her if she could cook for me. I mean, like, I paid her. Not out of the kindness of her heart, you know.”

In one last burst of affection, Paul kissed him again and quickly pulled a chair to sit at the table, feeling suddenly ravenous. He barely remembered wanting to sleep not five minutes before. John chuckled and sat at the table next to him, and they both started eating and talking animatedly about it. John didn’t know Asian food, not really, and Paul was more than pleased to tell him all about it and to actually explain to him what he had bought. He couldn’t help but to grab John’s hand and hold it the whole duration of their meal, even if it made it a bit harder for the two of them to eat (thankfully John was right-handed). John didn’t complain though, and Paul was elated. John’s face was soft, smiling and peaceful, and he kept giggling adorably at Paul’s antics – which Paul would have made fun of a few months before, but which he now cherished with all his heart. Paul wished he could bottle up the way he was feeling at that moment and be able to just open the bottle and swim in that privileged happiness whenever his mind was going dark again. 

When their (candlelit!) dinner was over, Paul checked his watch, lying back against his chair, and realized he needed to get going if he didn’t want to arrive too late at Ringo’s. Next to him, John was gathering all the leftovers in the same bowl – like the barbarian he was.

“You’re gonna have food for at least two days what with you eating like a bird,” He noted thoughtfully as he got up to put the food in the fridge.

Paul got up too, the scraping of the chair sounding painfully loud to his ears.

“Urgh, I told Ringo I’d pass by his house tonight. Shouldn’t be too long,” He stated on a casual tone.

John glanced at him as he was putting their napkins into the cupboard.

“Alright, let me just get my coat. I left it to dry in the bathroom.”

Paul froze and looked anxiously at John’s back. As if he’d sense his discomfort, John turned his head to him, arms still up, and froze too before he slowly lowered his arms.

“Unless you… don’t want me to come…?” He asked with a small voice, and Paul fiercely hated himself.

“It’s not that,” He rushed to explain. “It’s just—it’s gonna be boring, future stuff, you know. How to… how to plan some future… events, and all.”

John just kept looking at him for a moment, his eyes searching Paul’s face. Then, as if a switch was turned off, his expression turned completely blank.

“Alright. Merry Christmas then,” He said as he started to leave the room.

Paul grabbed his arm urgently. His stomach was twisting unpleasantly.

“Wait, love, please. It’s not against you, at all. It’s just—” He started.

“I don’t give a shit what it’s about, Paul. Go see Ringo alone, I don’t care. See you at the studio.”

He shook Paul’s hand off his arm, went to put on his shoes and left the flat, making sure to slam the door. The whole thing had not taken more than ten seconds, and Paul was left dumbstruck and frozen in his kitchen, the only rational thing turning in his mind being that John risked catching a cold without his coat in such a weather.

When he entered Ringo’s living-room and sat down on his couch, Paul felt perfectly drained. A headache was looming again and the joy of his earlier dinner, a distant memory. He couldn’t believe John had the… audacity… to be jealous of Ringo and him. Because that’s what he was, right? Jealous? There had been nothing truly incriminating in what Paul had told him, and jealousy sounded like the only explanation possible, no matter how much he twisted his words in his head. And he did twist them a lot.

Ringo was a bit too frantic to notice his state as it seemed though, which was quite unusual from such a gentle character – but Paul guessed he wasn’t the only one with problems. Maureen was upstairs with Zak, and for once Paul welcomed the calm and quiet. He was not in a state to make social efforts.

“So this one was in a library in Reading – if you can believe it,” Ringo explained as he was taking the magazine out of a drawer and bringing it to Paul. “The clerk must have thought I was insane, going through every single magazine entry. But for once that I had a free weekend, you know, I couldn’t lose the occasion. I found it last weekend, I can’t stop thinking about it since…”

Paul took the opened magazine and started reading the column at once, Ringo’s words drowning out next to him. It was said to be the fourth part of the story, dated on March 7th, 1894.

_“I followed my mother’s advice – for the first time ever, perhaps – and tried to be a more obedient daughter, which had never been an option for my rebellious younger self. I could not stop gazing at her face, her gestures, listening to the multitude of intonations in her voice. It was an alien enterprise, one that kept me up at night for weeks, Heaven, months on end. I could not stop picturing her falling to her death at every waking moment: I saw the car that would take her away from me two years on from that date in the corner of every street, and behind every loud noise. _

_It had come quite soon to my attention that my arriving in the past had followed a very discussion I had postponed for decades in my adult life. My husband had all innocently asked me why I never mentioned my mother – wonder to which I had surely found a confounding answer; that was not to be questioned. My mother was a sore subject of conversation, one that I had avoided from the moment she had passed. And yet, there she was, very much alive under my very eyes. It was as much of a truth as my being in my 14-year-old body, with its embarrassments and oddities. Teenage antics had never seen so trivial to me…! I can still hear my brother’s cries for a fancier pair of shoes as if it was last week, which left me wondering if we had always been so obnoxious to my poor mother, who was working so diligently to make sure we had enough warm clothes to go to school during winter._

_I wish I could say now, as I am sitting at my desk with a pencil in my hand, that my purpose as a visitor of the future was clear to me from the moment I went back to the monotony of a modest life in the hinterland of Wales. As a matter of fact, it was not. I spent months, aimless, reliving the days I had left before more than thirty years prior, always with that looming date of my mother’s death approaching closer and closer. I did right everything I thought I had done wrong; and yet, when months turned into a year, then a year and a half, I inescapably sank into a despair even worse than the one following my arrival. Thus, I cannot say with certainty that I would be here today if things had not changed as drastically as they did on that fateful Monday of April 24th, 1893.”_

Even though he had finished reading, Paul remained for a long moment with his eyes fixed on the magazine, expecting more words to appear by magic on the paper. More _meaning_. He looked up at Ringo, who stood in front of him with crossed arms, gnawing anxiously on the skin of his thumb.

“That’s it?!” He asked him, showing the incriminating paper.

“Yeah,” Ringo let out in a breath.

Paul gaped at him a little longer, than incontrollable anger grew and burst in him, coming out of nowhere.

“That’s… that’s bullshit! That doesn’t help _at all_!” He cried out.

“Shh, don’t yell, please! Zak is sleeping,” Ringo shushed him, looking at the ceiling to get his point across.

“Sorry,” Paul mumbled, his blood still boiling.

He got up and started pacing the room under Ringo’s careful gaze.

“She’s not… she doesn’t even know why she left, or why she came back. And what about that ‘fateful Friday’? Why does she just stop there?! Did she mention it before? This doesn’t lead anywhere! It’s just a, a poetic tal—… thing, or whatever. It’s useless, it just adds fuel to the fire and—”

He cut himself off, feeling his breath getting erratic. He needed to calm down. Think about it with more perspective – but his brain was a mess, and his anger and frustration from John’s words were still lurking around. Probably sensing an open window, Ringo enjoyed the short respite to speak with a tired voice.

“I know, I thought the same at first. But I think she makes some—I mean, not points, really, but she seems to say she came back because of her mum. Like, she talked about her for the first time in years and poof! Back to a few years before her death. That can’t be a coincidence.”

“Yeah. A few _years_. In a car accident, which, I mean, what’s the connection with her coming back anyway? Was she supposed to jump in front of the car or something?!” Paul cried out again, barely managing not to yell again.

Ringo frowned to himself, visibly considering the question as a serious one. Paul rubbed his hands over his face, harshly, and went back to the magazine he had carelessly dropped on the couch to read it again. As he was reading, Ringo went on to explain his reasoning.

“You remember, when I arrived I told you that the night before I had talked about Maureen, right? And the next moment I’m here, with her. That’s what happened to Briony too – the writer, that’s her name. so I thought ‘this has to be connected’, right? But then it doesn’t explain why you’re here too. And why you arrived so much sooner. Or why we arrived when we arrived at all. But then I thought: what if we’re here to prevent a catastrophe? Like Briony and her mum?”

Paul put the magazine down and turned frowning eyes to Ringo, trying to consider the hypothesis with more rationality than his brain seemed to be able to show at the moment.

“Like… like John’s death?” He asked with a tiny voice, his throat feeling dry.

“Yeah, maybe,” Ringo nodded. “Or Maureen’s. But those won’t happen in a long time, so it would make no sense for us to arrive so early, right? Unless it’s not about them at all.”

Paul frowned even harder and finally sat back down, Ringo following him on the couch. His cheeks were flushed with the excitement and his voice had become a heated whisper, and Paul couldn’t stop staring at him.

“Maybe we’re here to save the Beatles,” Ringo finally declared, his dramatic tone the embodiment of doom.

Paul couldn’t help the breathless chuckle that escaped him.

“Save the Beatles?” He repeated incredulously.

“Think about it!” Ringo exclaimed. “Both of us arriving right before a pivotal step in our careers, you right before the Jesus interview and me right after our last tour ever. Just before we started recording a bit differently. And that recording wasn’t that smooth the first time around. I mean, I don’t know how you remember it, but in my memories it was very weird at first, with you and john when you started bickering for small things, and when George and I, we just… I don’t know. Let you.”

Paul kept looking at him, thoughts twirling at lightning speed in his head. Could it be…? Could he be right? Some part of him saw the logic of it all, but he still struggled to grasp the big picture. Especially with the date of their shared departure. An idea popped into his mind that he didn’t take the time to proofread before voicing it.

“Do you have, you know, some paper and… a pen, something to write it all down? See how it matches?” He asked Ringo slowly, his own voice sounding feeble to him.

Ringo nodded excitedly and literally flew to the nearby chest of drawers to retrieve the material. He kneeled next to the coffee table and drew a line on a page, with ‘1966' at the beginning and ‘2019’ at the end. Paul kneeled next to him and put his elbows on the table to look closer.

“Wait,” He told him. “I arrived in 1965. And the line’s a bit confusing. Here, gimme…”

He motioned to his friend to give him the pen and Ringo obeyed in a heartbeat. Pen now in hand, he pulled the paper to him, reflected for a few seconds, then drew one vertical line and two horizontal ones. He started writing key dates on it, his and Ringo’s departure on August 14th 2019, his arrival on December 11th 1965, Ringo’s on October 3rd 1966\. Then everything he could think of that could be relevant: the major Beatles events, John’s, Brian’s and Maureen’s deaths, what they remembered happening on the moment of their departures and arrivals. Ringo was leaning over his shoulder, helping him fill everything out.

“Okay but the recordings are too far, you should put them sooner.”

“Whatever, it’s just a line—”

“Yeah but it’s confusing.”

“Urgh, okay.”

“What happened to your knuckles? They’re all scraped.”

“Nothing. Concentrate.”

“Yeah, sorry. Oh, yeah, write down the football thing.”

“I mean, no, why, that’s just completely random.”

“Is that supposed to be my name?”

“There. No, ugh. Here, happy? Okay. Now, the break-up. Nineteen sevent—”

“Well, let’s be honest, it was 1969.”

“It’s the same.”

“Hardly.”

“Nah nah nah...! Fine.”

“Your writing is shit.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

Seeing it clearly laid out on paper helped him see the reflection behind Ringo’s idea, but it still seemed a little arbitrary to him. Maybe he was just being too demanding, or too judgmental, but he craved the utmost clarity about it all. Overall, the most confusing point was the timing of their departure. If Ringo was quite positive he had talked about the band and Maureen the day before he had left, Paul was not so sure. He had talked about football, that much he knew. And he had a vague recollection of it leading him to talk about the band right after its break-up. Something about how he had missed almost all of the World Cup of Mexico because he had been too busy with Linda’s last months of pregnancy and with the drowning of his own sorrow over the band being over. The more he thought about it, the more details came back to him, materializing with difficulty over his clouded memories. He didn’t like talking about bad memories, especially those related to that period, and usually did his best to cut those conversations short. Nevertheless, for some reason, that one night he had indulged his son’s questions. Maybe out of tiredness, maybe out of nostalgia – he couldn’t really tell. But he did remember James asking him if he really hadn’t seen anyone during that period; probably something Linda had told him about at some point. And Paul... he had mentioned his bandmates, hadn’t he? Or rather how much he had missed them, then. Especially John, although back then he would have never admitted it. And how much back then, he would have given anything to cross out the last two years of his life and start fresh…

Start fresh.

_Start fresh_.

Paul sat back on his bottom, his mind reeling. He could hear Ringo was talking to him but none of his words registered. How come this memory was only coming back to him now?! He felt whiplashed, struck by his own idiocy and uselessness. Ringo had been here for not even three months and had already a whole hypothesis figured out. He had sought out for clues, for evidence, for testimonies. He had _worked_ on it, had _pondered_ about it. And what had Paul done? Just bitch and moan, basically. And fallen in love with his best friend, accessorily.

“—Or…? Mmh. Or maybe we’ll go back when we stop Brian from overdosing. If he doesn’t die, he’ll take care of us and we won’t break up,” Ringo finished, bringing Paul out of his own mind.

He shook his head, blinked a few times to bring himself out of his stupor and concentrated to zone back in on Ringo’s voice.

“Wha…?” He asked, rather unhelpfully.

Ringo glanced at him and seemed to finally take in Paul’s state. His intense expression quickly morphed into genuine worry.

“Are you okay?” He asked Paul.

Paul looked at him, then at the paper, the room around him, and back at Ringo. He could not even tell if he was okay or not, at this point. He felt like he had just discovered the meaning of life.

“Yeah, yeah I’m good. It’s just. A lot,” He let out, each word forcing through his tightened throat.

“I know,” Ringo gently replied. “I really think we’re onto something here, though.”

“Yeah…”

“If we’re right, we should be here, let’s say at least until August 1967, and at the very most until January 1970. I think. That makes between eight months and three years. That’s doable.”

Paul numbly nodded. It was true – it was all true, it made sense and, and… it was _logical_, and Paul was an _idiot_. He didn’t notice right away that Ringo was silently observing him with a sad puppy face.

“I’m sorry about Tara,” He told him quietly.

Paul’s defences built back up in a second and he straightened on his spot on the floor. He couldn’t meet Ringo’s gaze, though.

“Don’t.”

“Paul...”

“I’m serious, don’t do that.”

“I know you must be scared for John, but the situations are very diff—”

“I’m not talking about it, Richard,” Paul cut him off rather abruptly, having summoned to strength to send him a glare. “Just drop it. Okay?”

Ringo stared at him for a moment longer, then sighed very audibly. Ever so slowly, he supported himself on the table to stand up.

“Well I don’t think you should worry, anyway.” He said. Then, before Paul had time to retort anything: “I’ll try to find the other parts of the story. I don’t think I can visit anymore libraries that I haven’t already been to, but… I don’t know, I’ll find a way. God, I really miss the internet.”

Paul sighed, taking the olive branch for what it was. He got up as well and brushed off the dust from his knees.

“Yeah, me too. Although I got used to not having it again, I guess.”

He looked behind him at the window to find everything was pitch black outside. He had for sure outstayed his welcome.

“I’m going to go home,” He told Ringo, softer now that the first shock and anger were ebbing away.

Ringo nodded and followed him to the front door. Their silence was louder than the whole evening; Paul was certain they both felt the gravity of their discovery. He put on his coat and braced himself for the cold when a last thought crossed his mind and made him turn to Ringo, his hand already on the doorknob.

“Richie…” He started, a bit embarrassed. “Thank you, you know. For searching all this… for trying so hard. I haven’t been a great help.”

Ringo smiled at him and slightly shook his head.

“It’s alright. You have had a lot to think about. Especially about a _certain someone_…”

And then, as he dared to _wiggle his eyebrows_, Paul felt an incriminating blush creeping on his neck.

“Don’t you—Jeez, are you serious?! Uh! What are y—just. Shut up!”

Ringo’s laughter followed him his whole way back to his car, a welcomed reprieve among the madness of that day.

The drive home found Paul restless, to say the least. His thoughts were jostling one another on an endless loop and he couldn’t manage to settle on one long enough to forge an opinion on it. The only beacon he could actually focus on was, for some unfathomable reason, John’s face and his biting jealousy of a few hours earlier. Paul was not one to find jealousy appealing or flattering, but he did feel bad about lying to John and leaving him in the dark like that. Not that he could picture himself confessing the truth to him – he could not even picture to himself what the truth actually was – but still, he loved John and hated knowing him to be in pain like that.

So the first thing he did when he got home (besides petting his furry children) was to call his lover. He waited, one butt cheek on his chair, for someone to pick up but after an endless string of ringing, one, two, three times, he had to accept he was not going to talk to him that night. John had no actual way of knowing who was calling him; but the man was clever and so terribly stubborn that it was not far-fetched to assume he had asked Cynthia not to answer the phone all evening just to cover the possibility of Paul calling him. The bastard.

Alone with his overflowing thoughts, Paul tried to follow his nightly routine as best as he could. He was too tired and emotionally wired to realize fully what he had just learned, but he knew it was going to change everything. It was going to _question_ everything.

And he was not ready for that.

Two days later, he was an absolute mess.

The full _enormity_ of what their discovery meant had finally hit him, and the blow was brutal. He had had to drive all the way to his dad, leaving more than enough time to panic about pretty much everything, and then act normal with his family. Preparing for Christmas Eve had never been so far from his preoccupations and yet, he had to smile, chat, play with Ruth and help the Angelas in the kitchen. Pretend he was happy to celebrate when inside he just wanted to scream himself raw.

He was probably, _very likely_, going to go back to the future.

It was real and it was earth-shattering. Over the previous year, he had gone through all the stages of grief concerning his future life: denial, isolation, anger, bargaining, depression, he had done it all. And now that he was finally in the ‘acceptance’ part, now that he was finally starting to contemplate a new future for himself and a new definition of the circus his life was, the rug was pulled under his feet again.

He did not even know why exactly he had pushed aside the option of going back home so… easily. It had been awfully painful of course to accept that he wouldn’t be seeing his family again, and he still had nightmares about it and he still missed them horribly, but… he had not tried to go back. Not really. He had not searched all over the libraries like Ringo had. He had not tried to find someone else with the same experience. He had not emitted hypotheses, had not tried to rule out possibilities, or to pursue any promising lead. He could have – he had had the embryo of these options in his mind, but he had never pushed through. And he could not figure out why, and it made him feel guiltier and more stupid than ever.

Did it mean he didn’t miss his family as much as Ringo did…? It was ridiculous, he knew it was, but the idea kept nagging at him. He felt like by not trying as hard as his friend, he had somehow failed them. As if accepting his fate without putting up a hell of a fight meant he was a coward. But he was, in a way, wasn’t he? He had wanted to come back to the future, of course, but… when he had found his friends back, when he had realized he actually had a shot at making things right and at enjoying them more than he had in his past, he had caved. In a way, he had chosen them over his family and that made him feel sick with guilt and disgust at himself.

And now he had a real chance of going back home, going back to his sweet, sweet darling Nancy, and his kids, and his grandkids, and he was still not happy. He was not happy because he didn’t want to _leave_ – he didn’t want to leave George, and Brian, and Mal. He didn’t want to leave his dad. And, God…

John.

The mere idea of being separated from him again made him want to throw up. He had not been able to get over his loss the first time, but losing him _now_ would be undoubtedly one if not the worst thing that had ever happened to him. If he left, now… he would go back to a world where John, his _love_, the man he couldn’t stop thinking about every damn minute of every day, was dead. If he left, he would never see his smile again. He would never hear his voice, his laugh, his stupid fucking jokes. He would never be able to kiss him, and hold him, and have him again. He would be all alone, and John would be dead. And that was not something he could hope for, something he could long for. No matter how much he loved and missed his family – it could never be something he wanted.

But he did not exactly have a choice, did he…?

It was nearly 11pm on Christmas Eve when Paul found a short break in the family celebrations to isolate himself in his father’s bedroom. He had only lit up the bedside lamp and the amber light made everything seem sleepy and secret. He could hear his brother laughing downstairs, and Ruth chatting excitedly in that tiny mouse voice of hers. They were still eating desserts, and Paul had used the age-old excuse of going to the loo to slip away relatively unnoticed – although usually he was not really one to make his presence discreet in gatherings. Being able to enjoy these peaceful times with his family had soothed his worries and a little, but he could not stop picturing bright eyes and a mischievous grin in his mind every time he was not busy talking or eating or playing board games. Now sitting on the bed, he deeply breathed out to try and gather his thoughts and emotions, and finally picked up the rotary phone and composed the number he knew by heart.

The line rang, and rang, and with it Paul’s heart was moving up to his ears. He was just about to hang up when—

“Hullo and Merry Christmas, who am I speaking to?”

A shy smile broke on Paul’s face. God, he was acting like a true teenager, but John’s voice felt like coming home after a harassing day. Paul cleared his voice.

“Hey. It’s me.”

Silence resonated for a few agonizing seconds.

“Hi,” John finally said on a flat tone.

“How are you?” Paul forced out, beyond the awkwardness.

“… It’s Christmas.”

Paul nodded, even though he was alone in the room. He knew holidays were not John’s favourite time of the year.

“I miss you,” Paul whispered in a rush, feeling like he was jumping off a cliff.

The silence lasted a bit longer this time and then finally, _finally_, John sighed.

“I miss you too,” He admitted quietly, although he seemed a bit pissed off about it too.

“I’m sorry about the other day. I didn’t mean to leave you out like that. It was shitty of me.”

John sighed again, the noise reverberating in Paul’s ear.

“Yeah. Well. It was, but. Now you just won’t get the present I had gotten for you, that’s all.”

When he detected the hint of a joke in his tone, Paul chuckled; he was relieved beyond words.

“You won’t get yours either, then,” He replied. “It’s only fair.”

“What?! No, no I want mine!” John rushed to protest, all bitterness already long-forgotten.

“You’re so predictable,” Paul chuckled. “You’re literally a child, Winston.”

“And you’re literally shagging a bloke young enough to be your grandson,” John retorted straight away.

Paul gasped.

“What?! No, ew—what? God, John, don’t. Ew, don’t say things like that! Wha—?!”

But John was hysterically laughing in the phone and as he listened to him, Paul realized he didn’t really care about anything anymore as long as it kept John laughing like that.

“Stop making fun of me, my sweet little peach,” He sing-sang in retaliation.

John’s new burst of laughter was sharp and bright.

“Ah,” He let out. “And here I was, all innocent, daring to hope you had forgotten about that.”

Paul let himself drop to the floor, back against the bed, and cackled into the phone, smiling wickedly. His voice, however, was gentler than ever when he spoke again.

“So. Tell me. How was your day? How’s Julian…?”

Going back to the studio a few days later came as a deep relief for Paul. Being with family was great – he loved them and all – but it could get tiring after a while, especially following celebrations like Christmas. He was happy to be back to the leather smell of his guitar strap, to the crackling of the microphones and to the frenzy of a recording session. He had missed the music, the songs, the tunes. He had spent the last few nights dreaming of chords and lyrics and he needed, now more than ever, the output to exorcise all his feelings. And of course, seeing the smiling, sort of rested faces of George, Ringo, George Martin, and Geoff was the icing on the cake. The cake being, to be completely honest, mostly John.

They were polishing off their work on ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’, and as Paul tried not to intervene as much as he had in the past, he realized with wonder and amusement that the song was not exactly as it had been in his past. It was still a masterpiece – he had always been quite clairvoyant about that – but some lyrics had a few variations, and the arrangements were getting more complex too. John seemed to have thousands of ideas about how the song had to go, and now that he was (with difficulty, for sure) taking a step back in the process, Paul could only marvel at the ingenuity of his bandmate/lover/friend. It was interesting for him not only to observe it, but also to live it as something wholly different from a simple ‘replay’ of the past. All in all, he didn’t really feel like he was just reliving things. They were creating music, creating art. It was real work, and Paul was fully present, ignoring as best as he could the dark fears lurking at the back of his mind. Ignoring the little voice perpetually nagging at him: _This will not last. Soon, you will be gone, and all of this will be nothing but a dream_.

After a few hours of work, the four of them were alone in the canteen, taking their time in finishing their meal and enjoying each other’s presence. Or at least Paul was greatly enjoying the others’ presence; now more than ever, he consciously cherished those privileged moments with the three others. They were going to work on ‘Penny Lane’ for the rest of the night (one of the songs saved by Ringo and him), thus George and Ringo were about to head home see their kids since they had all agreed they would not record any guitar or percussions track yet. After all, they were just only beginning their work on the song, and there was – Paul vividly remembered it – a lot of groundwork to do first.

“So how was your first daddy Christmas, Georgie boy?” John asked with fondness and a tad of mockery in his voice.

He was eating a yoghurt and pushing himself against the back of his chair, one foot resting on his opposite knee. In front of him, Paul smiled around his mouthful of pear. Ringo chuckled at the question around his cup of tea but George, who was sitting next to Paul, did not even look up from his second plate of pasta.

“Spent it cleaning up Gracie’s sick,” He deadpanned.

Ringo answered with a sympathetic groan whereas John just laughed.

“We’ve all been there, son,” He told George in-between chuckles. “Next step, she’ll spend it crying because she hasn’t received that one specific toy.”

Paul snorted.

“Truer words have never been spoken,” He added with a wistful shake of his head.

Ringo laughed and George turned his head to Paul, observing him with an acuity that made Paul squirm a little.

“You had kids too, right? Were they brats, then?” He asked Paul, his dark eyes piercing him.

Paul swallowed his chunk of pear, fond nostalgia and ache dancing inside him.

“No, not really,” He answered. “They had their moments of course, you know, but they were cool kids. Although James did spend one Christmas puking _and_ crying because of one toy he didn’t like.”

“Oh my, I remember that! You had told me that,” Ringo laughed.

Paul glanced at George and saw a wolfish grin had taken over his face. When after a while he still hadn’t said anything and was still just grinning at him, Paul gave in.

“What?” He chuckled.

“Oh course you would name one of your kids after yourself.”

Paul gave him an impassive look while John was bursting out in laughter.

Since they had finally finished their dinner, they quickly cleaned out after them and left the canteen. Ringo and George said their goodbyes and left, leaving John and Paul to go back to the studio with already chords and arrangements twirling in their heads. It was only much later, as he was talking with George Martin about how many piano tracks they needed to prepare, that Paul realized with a start that George was not questioning the existence of his future anymore.

It was New Year’s Eve, and London was bitingly cold.

Since George had plans on his side and Ringo had decided to go back to Liverpool with his family, John and Paul had agreed to attend the same event in order to spend it together – inconspicuously. Cynthia was to be there too, and Paul tried not to worry about it, but he figured that as long as John and he didn’t start snogging in front of her they should be relatively fine. The Psychedelicamania NYE concert, with Jimi Hendrix, Pink Floyd, and The Who among countless others, seemed to be the perfect occasion at first, but it was only when Paul arrived and saw the literal sea of overexcited people that he recognized it might not have been their best idea ever. He managed to find a back entrance and, thanks to his famous face, was able to enter the venue relatively unnoticed. He didn’t know if John and Cynthia had arrived yet, so when he was proposed to go directly backstage he welcomed the proposition with unfeigned enthusiasm. The rock music world was smaller than it appeared, and being an easy, outgoing person, it was natural for him to chat with the other artists and to enjoy himself before the show. The fact that he was to be joined by the Lennons was not a secret, and when he was told by an assistant that they had arrived too and were waiting for him in the stage wings.

With giddiness and eager anticipation buzzing inside him, Paul followed the man’s indications to go and find them, and when he arrived to the stage wings and spotted a heap of auburn hair and could already hear a nasal voice, his heart fluttered. He approached in a few steps and halted in front of them with an uncontrollable grin on his face.

“Hey!” He announced quite loudly to cover the noise of the crowd in the room and the rustling of the stage wings.

John sharply turned his head to face him and a huge smile took over his face.

“Hey!” He answered. “Didn’t see you arrive.”

“Hi Paul,” Cynthia said with an embarrassed smile.

Paul was not used to see her being shy in his presence (they had known each other for a very long time) but did not think much of it. She was probably a bit lightheaded with the unexpected business of the venue. He dropped a light kiss on her cheek, his eyes still locked with John’s.

“You look lovely,” He told her when he finally detached his gaze from John and took in her blue dress and dark coat.

“Thank you,” She smiled, the tiniest bit more at ease. “I hope you haven’t waited for too long. John got us lost.”

John stuttered on his words for a second, making Paul laugh.

“I didn—I didn’t get us lost, okay. I just. Gave not _exactly_ the right address to the taxi. I mean, honest mistake.”

Paul grinned even harder, and when he noticed he had been staring at John’s lips for a tad too long he hastily looked up and pretended to look around as he started explaining to them who they were going to see perform – not that they particularly had to know, but he needed the distraction. Not kissing John all evening was going to be a harder task than he had anticipated. He couldn’t even look at Cynthia, fearing she might read through him the second their eyes would meet.

Drinks in hand, the three of them found a relatively quiet corner to watch the show from, and from then on it was a true herculean feat for Paul not to forget Cynthia was there too, on the other side of John. John was positively glowing: his eyes were shining brighter than all the spots of the venue, there was a light, excited blush on his cheeks, his hair was slightly tousled – he probably hadn’t bothered brushing it – and he smelled like soap, coconut, wood and the faintest trace of sweat. His heat was almost palpable, and Paul took up every opportunity to brush his arm and hip against him to profit from it. Paul was so elated to be there with him that he was practically vibrating with it, and he spent the whole night grinning like a madman and finding any possible excuse to lean into John and whisper nonsense against his ear, John’s hair tickling him in the best way possible. It was not long before Paul felt too hot in his own skin, and he could only thank the darkness surrounding him for hiding the bulge in his pants.

The show was amazing, the music pulsating under their skin and through their veins, and the crowd was particularly wild; shirt and people were flying, there was hair whipping everywhere and almost as many screams as in their own concerts. When they were joined in their secluded spot by some friends of the performing groups, including the girlfriend of Roger Daltrey, Heather (and it was funny for Paul to _know_ they were going to get married later on) and Karen Townshend, Paul and John exchanged a glance and without needing to consent on it, enjoyed the occasion to sneak away and into the unsuspecting crowd. They knew Cynthia would be fine, and anyway they didn’t lose more time to check.

Paul did spot a couple of double-take looks on his way into the audience, but thankfully no one was sober or attentive enough to really have time to recognize them – or perhaps, if they did, no one really bothered to react to it. With a hand on John’s small back, he followed his boyfriend closer, always closer to the front row. It was exhilarating: for the first time in a very, very long time, he felt like a regular young adult attending a concert with his best friend. There was no fame in the rush of the crowd, in the delighted screaming of the people, in the darkness and the bright spotlights flying over the mass of bodies. Finally John stopped, seemingly satisfied with their new spot, and for a while they just enjoyed the music and the dancing of the bodies around them to get lost in it too. When people around him starting counting down from 10, Paul shook himself out of his daze and realized that was it. Midnight was approaching and he was staring at John and John was staring at him with a smile that could light up the entire room.

When the whole room haphazardly screamed ‘Happy New Year’, including David Gilmour himself, Paul’s breath caught in his throat as John leant in to kiss him. The warm kiss was the briefest thing ever, but it warmed Paul from the inside out. His first reflex when they pulled back was to take a look around to see if anyone had seen them, but no one cared; everyone was too busy laughing, kissing or hugging each other to pay attention to them. Feeling emboldened, Paul beamed at John and took him in his arms, burying his head into his neck and breathing him in. He could feel John’s arms encircling him, just as tight, and his laughter reverberating in his chest. John even made them sway a little from side to side. After a moment they stepped away from each other, although Paul laced his fingers with John’s, unable to completely let go of him. The crowd around them was already getting back into the spirit of the concert, and as spirits lowered a bit, Paul understood their cover had more chances to be blown. He squeezed John’s fingers and leant in to whisper in his ear.

“We should go back. Don’t want to be mobbed to death when people do recognize us.”

John nodded and led him through the perspiring bodies, back to the stage wings. With his warm hand in his, Paul felt anchored, loved. At peace. It was weird, how a simple, innocent gesture could do so much to his well-being. It was only when they arrived back with Cynthia and the others, and when John softly dropped his hand, that Paul saw how fragile all of it was. Standing there, no longer John’s boyfriend but his mere bandmate to the intruders’ eyes, he realized with a start that this might be his last ever New Year’s Eve with John. Come the next year, he might be back in 2019, with his children, his wife, his grandchildren, and John’s body buried six feet under.

Crushing distress suddenly permeated his body and soul, carried on even faster by the alcohol running through his veins. He turned to look at John, at his crooked smile, the light crinkles around his almond eyes, the moles on his cheeks and neck, the pointy end of his nose; and he was at once overwhelmed with an urge to cry or scream himself raw. He was not ready.

He was not ready to leave.

January and February went and left in a blur of intense work and persisting headaches.

If Paul had always been a workaholic, he had never really carried that tendency to obsess to anything other than music. As stupid as it sounded, he loved perfection: he loved working over and over and over on a song to make sure it fitted perfectly the idea of it he had in his idea. That said, he did not count the hours he devoted to music, in and out of the studio. Music always danced in his mind, nesting into every little crook, and followed him everywhere he went, bursting out when he was working, and impatiently hibernating when he wasn’t. But in these cold first weeks of 1967, a new obsession was endlessly looping in him: he was going to leave. No matter what he did, or said, he was not going to stay in the past eternally. Once upon a time, that knowledge would have been a comfort, but now it felt like a curse. It prevented him from truly enjoying his time in the present, even though he tried his hardest not to get lost in his own head. He had even, on a desperate sleepless night, wondered if he could just… let the Beatles implode again. Or even encourage it, and thus make sure not to be sent back. But that thought had horrified him the second it had formed. He could not impose such pain and heartache over his bandmates. Not again. George and John deserved better, and Paul could simply not knowingly lead them to a path that would cause them harm. The mere idea of letting his and John’s relationship turn again into what it had been between 1968 and 1970 made him sick. And moreover, nothing assured him that letting things turn as bad as they had in the past would not make him leave anyway. If Fate or whatever other force that had sent him back saw him do nothing, or make the exact same mistakes, or make worse ones, maybe it would rip him from this timeline even faster.

Drowning into work was a good way of feeling useful, of feeling like his presence had some meaning, however meagre. He also tried to enjoy his loved ones even more: he called his dad every few days, took up any opportunity he had to drive up to his house, hung out with George and his baby girl, made sure to see Mal regularly and to ask Brian for advice and services even when his pride could have pushed him into doing things on his own. He had forced George to go not only to a Donovan concert with him but also to a Jimi Hendrix one with Ringo and him, had invited Mal and his family over at his place for dinner a couple of times, had even convinced Neil to drive up with him to Liverpool for a weekend. The only thing he had found himself doing a bit reluctantly was the conversation about their next film, since he had no idea what to do about it this time. Some egotistical part of him wanted to give even less of a care about it than the first time, but since he didn’t want to lead the thing as much as he had in the past, he decided to let the others decide and just root for their ideas with all his power – that was, if the other bothered to have ideas at all. And although he was trying not to be and was a bit annoyed at himself for it, he was literally clinging to John whenever he could get away with it.

On March 13th, Paul and John were naked on Paul’s bed, sweaty and all spent. They had spent the whole weekend together at Paul’s, which had not happened in a little while – and they had surely found ways to make up for lost time.

John was lying on his back, lazily smoking, while Paul was sitting-cross legged in the middle of the bed and observing John’s calf intently.

“Thirty-four…” He counted out loud, very concentrated on his task. “Thirty-five. Lift your leg. Thirty-six…”

“You’re gonna lose,” John mused with an amused voice as he let Paul move his legs around as he pleased.

“Shh. Thirty-nine…”

Paul stopped talking and grabbed John’s hip and tried to force him to turn over, which made John cackle like a madman. When he realized John was resisting, Paul looked up at him with an incredulous expression, trying to repress his smile.

“Come on, turn around!” He asked John, who merely shook his head at him and put out his cigarette in the cup on his bedside table.

“I told you, you’re gonna lose! I have way more than a hundred of them.”

“You can’t have more than a hundred moles, Lennon, come on. Be serious,” Paul retorted, trying to sound deadpan.

But John only kept laughing and in a flash he rose from his lying position and tackled Paul back onto the bed, dropping his whole weight on top on him despite the weird angle of their bodies. Laughter erupted uncontrollably out of Paul, and he tried to push off the monster crushing him, feeling his bent leg already going numb. But when he felt John’s lips tracing a teasing line on his neck, his laughter slowly turned breathless. He slipped an already trembling hand on John’s thigh and slowly lifted it up—

—When the doorbell of his front door loudly resonated in the flat, making the both of them jump a little. They stayed frozen for a couple of seconds, and when the doorbell rang a second time, John groaned and Paul let his head dramatically fall backwards on the bed. They disentangled themselves as efficiently as they could, Paul searching for his pyjama tracks on the floor.

“Is it your neighbours?” John asked as he was slipping on his own briefs without actually getting up from the bed, lifting his hips up in an absurdly complicated movement.

“Doubt it,” Paul answered.

The doorbell rang again, a bit longer, and Paul sighed loudly.

“Alright, alright! I’m coming, Jesus,” He grumbled.

When he was finally dressed, he got up and turned to John, who was sort of dressed too but looked completely dishevelled.

“You should fix your hair, right now it’s screaming ‘I just had sex’,” He told him with a chuckle.

John’s hands flew to his head.

“Amazing sex,” He stage-whispered to Paul with a smug grin.

“Shut up,” Paul snorted. “Go wait in the music room in case, yeah? Please?”

“Aye aye captain.”

Paul waited for John to be in the music room to close the door of his bedroom and to go to the hallway, noticing whoever was waiting at the door had stopped ringing. He wondered vaguely who could be visiting him on a Monday morning (even if it was nearly noon), petted Martha on the way and went to grab the doorknob door as casual as anything, not even thinking about checking through the peephole first. When he opened the door, he couldn’t stop his eyebrows from shooting up on his forehead.

“Brian!” He saluted him, a bit taken aback. “What are you do—”

Then, sharp as lightning, realization dawned upon him and his eyes widened.

“Fuck, the meeting,” He let out in a breath.

Brian smiled, looking amused. He was enveloped in a warm dark coat and was wearing a hat that made him look like a detective in the 1930s.

“I take it you had forgotten my coming here,” He chuckled lightly. “That’s why I had told you doing it at the office would be easier…”

“Yeah, yeah, no, it’s fine. Come- yeah, come in,” Paul rushed to say, stepping aside.

He took Brian’s coat and hat and as his manager was getting into the living-room, he realized with utter clarity that he had forgotten to put on his briefs under his pyjama bottoms. Hoping his burning neck wouldn’t betray him further, he followed Brian to the living-room and proposed to make tea. He put on the kettle and was coming back into the living-room with a pack of biscuits when he saw John striding in as well. Panic rose for a second in him before he reasoned with himself to calm down._ It’s just Brian. He knows. It’s okay._

When Brian, who had found a seat on one of the colourful chairs, looked up and saw both Paul and John, Paul perceived in his eyes the sudden flash of surprise that was almost immediately schooled down. It was a ‘blink and you miss it’ moment, and Paul could only give his manager credit for mastering his expressions so well.

“Ah, I knew I could hear our dear manager’s lovely voice,” John exclaimed joyfully.

Paul went to sit on the couch while Brian was briefly getting up to shake John’s hand.

“John, hello,” He told him with a sincere smile. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Nah it’s fine, we were just shagging,” John added casually, sitting on the armrest of the couch next to Paul.

Frozen for a second, Paul blinked his embarrassment away, cleared his throat and turned to Brian. He figured denying John’s words would only bring more attention to them. He was about to speak when John beat him to it.

“So what’s bringing you here at the crack of dawn?”

Brian’s eyes travelled from John’s face to Paul’s, and when Paul met them, the only thought that crossed his mind was ‘_fuck’_. He remembered now why he had not wanted to meet Brian at the office, where John might pop up unannounced…

“Uh…” He started a bit unhelpfully, racking his brain to find a good explanation that did not imply John taking it wrong and causing a scene.

But judging from the smile slowly but surely dying on John’s face, it was already too late.

“What?!” He chuckled humourlessly, sounding already a little tense. “Is Paul like, secretly leaving the band or something?”

“Of course not,” Paul replied softly.

“Then what?” John insisted with a frown, looking between Paul and Brian who seemed a bit uneasy.

When he understood there was no way to get out of the situation without hurting John further, he deeply sighed and rubbed his forehead. He kept his gaze locked on the rug as he spoke again.

“I asked Brian if we could, maybe find a— a woman willing to pretend to be… hum interested, in me. You know, to let people believe I’m not single. But nothing much, just a vague rumour.”

His voice died out in the silence of the room, and he didn’t dare look up at John, although he cruelly felt when John slightly pulled back his leg and no longer touched Paul’s side.

“But you’re not single,” John said flatly.

Paul raised his head in a flash and turned to John, his hand flying to grab his boyfriend’s fingers.

“I know that,” He rushed to amend, finding John’s blank eyes straight away. “Of course I’m not. But it might help to, you know, to divert the attention from us.”

When John just kept staring at Paul without saying anything, emotions fighting in his eyes, Brian cleared his throat.

“Paul is right,” He started softly. “It’s a common public relations tactic. Maybe not the most… honourable one, but it will probably make it easier for you two to go to public events together, for example.”

For the longest moment, John remained completely silent, just blankly looking at John and Brian. Paul noticed that he wasn’t wearing his glasses, and the blur around him probably just added to the unreal quality of the situation. He had not pushed off Paul’s fingers (yet) though, and Paul tightly held on to them.

“This is utter bullcrap,” John finally spat unequivocally, focusing his gaze solely on Paul. “Why the fuck would you do that? I’m still married. There’s no need for that.”

Paul gaped a little at him, struggling to find a satisfying answer, but thankfully Brian came to his rescue.

“John, your relationship with Cynthia is not exactly a strong defence in the public eye. You two haven’t been seen together for months…”

“That’s not true! We spent New Year’s together!” John retorted, getting worked up.

He freed his fingers from Paul’s, and Paul looked down for a moment, breathing deeply not to get too emotional. He needed to stay calm and clear-headed.

“Still, it’s not a secret you’re not together anymore,” Brian countered, a bit more severely. “You have told countless people yourself that you were separated. Words like these travel fast, you know that.”

“But we are gonna make more public efforts, Cyn and I. I’ve told her about us and she’s okay with it.”

Paul’s head snapped up to John, a cold feeling of betrayal cursing through him. John was already looking back at him with an apologizing glint in his eyes.

“I was going to tell you,” He assured him softly.

Paul’s gaze got lost for a moment as he was replaying his last encounter with Cynthia in his head, during the concert. She had been a bit unusually embarrassed, a bit distant he guessed, but nothing too out of the ordinary. He wondered if she already knew, then.

“You told her?” Brian made sure, his brows knitted in a worried line. “How did she react?”

John turned to him and after a moment of hesitation, half-shrugged, but Paul could tell he was a bit uneasy. Why, though, he couldn’t pinpoint.

“She doesn’t… she’s okay with us staying married _even if_, you know. As long as I stay in the house with Jules. She won’t, like. She won’t tell anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Brian nodded thoughtfully, and Paul could literally see the clogs turning in his brain.

“Alright, that’s… that’s actually better than anything I could have expected,” He conceded. “She really is a formidable woman.”

He rubbed his lips pensively for a moment and turned to John and Paul again.

“I wouldn’t advise you to tell any more people, though. Of course you can announce it to your families, I would never forbid you to do that. I know how important that can be. But concerning the work field, I think if you were to tell people, it would be too hard to make sure the information doesn’t end up filtering out. There are a lot of people, a lot of ears, and not all of them are as open and kind-hearted as Cynthia.”

“I didn’t tell anyone,” Paul rushed to say, not really knowing why he felt the need to make that clear.

He felt more than he saw John send him a sharp look at that. Ignoring it, he chose to go straight to the point of Brian’s very visit.

“Did you… hum, did you find someone, then?”

Thankfully Brian understood straight away what he was referencing to.

“Yes, I have,” He nodded. “She’s a friend of mine, a painter. Very discreet; she doesn’t mind much about relationships, as she is very free about whom she loves, you see. But… let’s say she has suffered a bit from the art world’s assumptions. I explained the situation to her – without giving your names of course, I wanted to check with you first – and she would be happy to help. You could publicly meet her when she’s exhibited in a few weeks.”

Paul nodded the information in, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling in his stomach. Next to him, John was stiff as a wooden sculpture. His silence was more worrisome than his earlier biting tone. Paul turned to search for his gaze, trying to gauge how okay with the whole idea he actually was – although a nagging voice in his head was repeating to him ‘_too late for that’_. When John finally accepted to meet his eyes, he was very obviously keeping a blank expression on purpose. Paul tried not to get annoyed by it and turned back to Brian.

“Can I come back to you a bit later about it? Or do you need a response now?” He asked him, his level voice sounding alien to his own ears.

“Oh no, of course, take your time,” Brian reassured him.

Then, with a quick look to John’s stony demeanour, he got up from his seat.

“I won’t bother you any longer. You have recordings today, am I right?”

Paul jumped on his feet too, welcoming the brief distraction.

“Yeah, we do. It’s gonna be a late session, though, you know.”

“I’ll probably pop in at the studio this week. Chaperone you boys a little,” Brian added with a kind smile.

Paul smiled back, although it was a bit painful.

“Sounds perfect.”

The two of them trod to the hallway, and Paul was almost surprised when John joined them to say a quick goodbye to Brian as he was retrieving his coat and hat back. Paul wished Brian a nice day, smiled and thanked him, and watched him leave in the stairs, closing the door only when he could no longer see him.

When he turned around to his now silent flat, John was nowhere to be seen. His heart up in his throat, Paul advanced a bit apprehensively into the corridor. The door of his bedroom was slightly ajar, and he softly poked his head in.

John was lying half-curled on the bed, back to him. It was an odd vision, one he had never really been the witness of, and for a moment he did not quite know how to act. Choosing to face whatever John’s feelings were anyway, he approached the bed and sat on it. When John didn’t react, he slowly lied down next to him and brought up a careful hand on John’s back, clenching his fingers a bit into the fabric of his sweater. Since John was not pushing him away, he leaned a bit closer and snuggled his face into John’s back, not caring if that made him look like a child afraid of thunder and looking for reassurance. In a way, that was exactly what he was.

After a moment that felt like eternity, John slowly turned around, and when Paul lifted his head, they ended up face to face. They stared at each other for a long while, Paul feeling like the slightest wrong movement or wrong word might make John disappear from his life in a heartbeat. Then, to his greatest surprise, John came closer to him and snuggled against him, taking Paul in his arms and fitting his head against Paul’s neck. His heart was beating loudly against Paul’s belly, and Paul hugged him as tightly as humanly possible. He closed his eyes and wished with all his might for John’s shaky breathing to be only due to his curled position.


	51. Chapter 51

Eyes closed, Paul could feel and hear John’s breathing against his neck. They were supposed to get ready, to eat and leave for the studio, but warmth and numbness were already tackling him and made him want to just fall back asleep. After a moment, John disentangled himself from him and slowly rose from the bed. Paul could only see his back, but he could tell he was a bit dazed, sluggish. Or maybe tense. John glanced at him and padded towards the hallway.

“You forgot the tea,” He told him as of an explanation – and Paul had, completely. 

Once alone in the bedroom, Paul lied fully on his back, stretching his limbs on all ends of the bed, and sighed deeply. All in all, John was taking the idea of the PR girlfriend better than he had expected. He didn’t look thrilled about it (of course, who would be) but Paul had thought he would have put up more of a fight about it. John was fiery, and when offended or backed against a wall, he could prove an ardent and merciless opponent. He never went down without a fight, however much it may cost him. That was one of the things Paul loved about him. And although he certainly did not like confrontation any more than Paul did, it was a bit surprising to have him accept the situation so easily. 

After a moment of idle relief, Paul chose not to dwell on it and got up. He went to the kitchen too, picking Thisbe up in his arms in the process (despite her loud protests). He stood in the middle of the archway leading to the kitchen and simply watched John drink his tea. John was leaning against the counter and was carefully watching him back. Paul smiled at him and after a second he reciprocated, a small, unsure thing but still warm. He turned to put his cup away and Paul bent down to put Thisbe back on the floor when his voice rose in the silence. 

“When did you and Brian decide to search for a fake girlfriend?” 

Paul tried hard not to freeze. Still squatting, he patted Thisbe to give himself some countenance and rose slowly back up, his eyes finding John’s serious ones immediately. He was now facing Paul with crossed arms and was looking at him slightly above his glasses. His posture was cautious and defensive. Trying to find words but coming up empty, Paul just looked at him with guilt probably written all over his face. Something twitched on John’s face and he plodded on, taking a big breath in. 

“Were you going to tell me?”

Paul squared his jaw. He should have expected it – he had, too, in a way. But it still took him by surprise and he found no answer sounded satisfying enough to his own ears. He cringed at himself before he even said anything. 

“I talked to him a few weeks ago,” He admitted. “Before Christmas.”

John’s eyes didn’t move but he tightened his lips the slightest bit. 

“That’s hardly a few weeks,” He commented through gritted teeth and Paul could literally feel his rising anger burning through his skin.

“I received a threat, a letter.” Paul calmly explained, the words scorching his throat as if their simple utterance held some destructive power. “Someone claiming they knew I was not heterosexual, threatening to tell everyone. And my neighbours, the ones who live across the floor, they know. About us. They told me to stay away from their son. I know I should have told you, all of it. I know. But the letter was actually addressed to me, and it didn’t even mention you. And I thought I could handle the neighbours, I mean, I just don’t talk to them, and you have no reason to talk to them either. So yes, I kept it to myself and then I told Brian and that’s it. And then… Then Tara died.” 

He trailed off and his eyes darted to Thisbe licking her paw on the floor. He didn’t know if he was able to say it while looking into John’s eyes, but he found he did not really have a choice. There was no avoiding it now. He looked up at John, deeply breathed in and then added, loud and clear:

“Again.”

For a couple of seconds nothing happened, and then John’s face both lost all its colours and turned frowny at the same time. He opened his mouth to speak but Paul beat him to it, knowing what was coming.

“Yeah, I know, I know it’s a lot, and… and it’s fucking scary for a hundred reasons. I know. I should have told you that too, maybe, I don’t know. I’m sorry, but that’s—but you know why I didn’t tell you?! Because I spend already so much time just… _worrying_ about what’s going to happen to you, to us, and I don’t—I didn’t want to have to spend our time together doing that too. Maybe it’s selfish, but. I don’t want you to live in fear after that… after that fucking bombshell I have already dropped on you. You know, Tara, I just… I don’t even know what to say. There’s nothing to say. I did everything I could to – I spent the whole day with him, and it still. It still—”

His gaze was firmly fixed on John, who looked profoundly shaken now. Paul wanted to go and take him in his arms, shush his fears away, but he knew better than anyone how well-founded his fears were and his muscles had turned to ice.

“But it’s different. His death, there was… it just happened, you know? It’s not something that was the result of, of an escalation of events. Like, it’s not something any of us was the catalyst of, you know what I mean? It’s completely different. But still, still I… You can’t blame me for going… for trying harder. To protect us.” He swallowed with difficulty. “You.”

There was a long moment of silence between them, only broken by the soft noises of Thisbe cleaning herself at Paul’s feet. John’s expression was shocked and understandably frightened, but there was some reservation in it that Paul had trouble reading. His own hands had started shaking the tiniest bit and he dived them in his pockets to stop it. A few times John seemed about to speak, but the task took him a couple of tries.

“I’m not a damsel in distress,” He finally settled on answering, his voice sounding odd like a teenager whose voice is starting to break.

“I know!” Paul rushed to cry out, making Thisbe jump. “I know you’re not, that’s not. Look, maybe I’m paranoid for nothing but I’ve seen _Brokeback Mountain_, okay? I know what people can do—”

John’s stupor broke to briefly let space to confusion.

“You’ve seen what—?!”

“Just, the thing is, I don’t want to do this either. I don’t. I want things to be simple, and, and just easy, but they’re not. And if preserving what we have means I need to pretend to be dating someone else once or twice at a party, then yes, I’m willing to do it.”

Still looking upset, John slowly closed his mouth. Paul waited for his answer, his reaction, anything. Anything other than the uneasy silence growing like a brick wall between them. For a moment it looked like John was about to explode, his face growing red and his fist tightly drawn on the counter. Paul could already hear his screams. And then, somehow, the atmosphere defused a bit. John looked around, his eyes not focusing on anything in particular, and pushed himself off the counter.

“I think I’m going to leave, now,” He announced blankly.

As he approached the archway he stopped and expectantly looked at Paul, who was still standing in the middle of it. Paul just gaped at him, his brain drowning with signals it did not know how to interpret. After a couple of seconds, John grunted and slightly pushed him away to go into the hallway. There wasn’t much strength in it, not much animosity, but it still shook Paul to the core and he just stared at him putting on his shoes and taking his coat.

“You… Uh, I…” Paul muttered uselessly. 

He had no idea what was happening. Were they breaking up? Was this a break-up? A fight? Or did John just… let it go? Were they just going to leave it at this? His head was clouded in uncertainty and John was already opening the door and glancing at Martha yapping at his feet. He looked up at Paul, and his eyes were dark and frowning. They just stared at each other for a while, until John spoke and simply said:

“See you later.”

Paul stared at the door long after he was gone, his whole head turned into mush.

As Paul’s steps led him closer and closer to Abbey Road later that day, he was a bundle of anxiety. He had absolutely no idea to expect. If John was going to be there or not, if he would scream at him, punch him, or ignore him. Or if he was going to pretend everything was okay. Hell, he did not even know if they were still together. He knew all in all that telling the truth had to have been the right decision in the long run, but it still felt like a terrible mistake. Like he had torn something between them that was too delicate to be pieced back together. He had never, ever felt that nervous and just bad at the prospect of a recording session before. Not even when the group was splitting up, or for his first day back as a Beatle. It felt like a bomb was waiting for him inside the building, one wrong step through the threshold with the potential of being the trigger to destroy all of their lives. 

He meandered through the corridors and stairs to finally arrive at the opened doors of their usual recording studio. He could already hear voices inside, but his head was too heavy to allow him to really distinguish any of them. Going on automatic mode, he strode inside and waved at everyone, acknowledging their moustached presence but not taking the time to really look at anyone. John was there, though; like a moth drawn to a light, Paul’s eyes had immediately sensed him, sitting near Ringo’s drums with a guitar in his lap. 

Words to say were already battling in his head when Paul was interrupted in his thoughts by George, popping suddenly in front of him with a grin and a remark Paul had not heard at all.

“Sorry, what?” He asked politely, blinking his daze away.

“I said, you’re almost late,” George repeated, raising an amused eyebrow. “We nearly asked the intern to cover for you.”

Paul chuckled in lieu of answering and tried to draw strength from the affable face of his friend. He looked briefly in John’s direction but when he saw his lover had not raised his head, he quickly diverted his attention and brought it to literally everyone but him. Momentum took hold of him and he settled with his bass, trying to ignore the pang in his chest when he realized John did not seem to be looking at him. After a while they started playing one of George’s new songs (how exciting it was to work on something he didn’t know!) and Paul let himself go into the music, feeling it and pouring his pent-up sensations and emotions in it. With his eyes closed, it was easier to forget John was just a few meters away from him and yet further than he had been in months. 

The session went on in a sort of fast-paced befuddlement. Paul tried his hardest to ignore the elephant in the room, although he could tell the others had picked up the unavoidable tension floating around. But since no one said anything, Paul would be damned if he was the one to clear the air. John barely said anything all day anyway, whether it be to him or to anyone else, and the little he had said gave a glimpse of his sour mood. When they stopped for breaks, Paul busied himself talking with George or George Martin, trying not to let his heart drop too hard. _It’s okay_, he kept repeating to himself like a mantra._ It’s just a fight. You’re still friends, he’s still here. It’s okay._ However, he found the words were not reassuring at all. If anything, they just added salt in the wound and made him realize just how lost and helpless he felt without John’s solid presence next to him, be it literally or figuratively. But still, he could not bear the terrified silence in his head. The fear that everything was over. That he had ruined everything, once again. He guessed he could just face John and ask clear answers from him, but his ego blocked him. It seemed like he had no dignity anymore when it came to the other man, and he didn’t want to ridicule himself by begging him to take him back – if he had even actually dumped him in the first place. Nothing was clear, was the thing. Plus, he figured that if John _really_ wanted to talk to him he would have done it already. 

The day dripped by terribly slowly, but came a blessed moment when they all agreed to call it a night. It was already pretty late into the night, and everyone was tired from a long day of work. Paul kept on his casual act, getting ready to leave but still once step behind everyone. After that many years of recording, it had become an instinct to leave last. To make sure everything was perfect before he left, to not let one single stone unturned. He was so used to being the last one to close the door that when he finally picked up his things and got up to leave, he startled as he realized he was not alone.

John was sitting cross-legged on a chair, just next to the door. He was watching Paul so quietly and with such intensity that Paul felt a shiver run along his spine. He had not noticed he was being watched and that knowledge made him feel weird. 

“I didn’t… I hadn’t seen you,” He told John quietly.

John simply raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“I noticed,” He answered neutrally.

They stared at each other for a while, Paul still standing awkwardly with his jacket in his hands. Suddenly, out of nowhere, he felt anger rising in him. 

“Why are you so fucking calm?!” He asked John in a more brutal voice that either of them expected. 

John uncrossed one of his legs, which he left dangling from the chair. He frowned at Paul but his chest was open, proof that he wasn’t totally mad - yet. He seemed rather cool, much cooler than Paul could accept.

“Isn’t that a good thing, to be calm?” He retorted in that annoyingly level voice.

Paul threw his jacket on his chair and marched towards him. Fear and hurt from the potential rejection were making his vision go blurry and he could not see anything past John’s light brown eyes. 

“Okay, tell me now. Go on, break up with me. Just don’t fucking drag it, with you just… just, like, looking at me like a stalker from the corner of the room.”

John’s frown was harder than ever. 

“I’m not breaking up with you. Are you… are you breaking up with me?!”

Paul raised his hands to the air, a brief stream of relief cursing through him, even though now annoyance was winning the battle.

“No!” He exclaimed, infuriated. “Just… urgh, you’re killing me! What is this? You just fucking left this morning and now—now what?!”

Finally John pushed himself off the chair and stepped closer to Paul. His eyes had gone dark and he was pointing a trembling finger on Paul. Now he could see how indisputably _furious_ he was underneath his calm demeanour. The surprise of noticing it was cut short by John poking his finger harshly into Paul’s chest, so close to each other now that their noses were nearly bumping.

“You have _no fucking right_ to be angry,” He hissed. “You lied to me and took me for an idiot for months, so I’m the one who’s allowed to be angry. _Me_, you hear me?! I’m trying so bloody hard not to be mad at you but you’re—just, fuck, you’re making it really fucking hard right now.”

But Paul had had his fair share of fights with him in the past, and he was not one to be intimidated that easily.

“Then do it! Be angry! Just stop that bloody silence treatment!”

That seemed to be the last straw for John who pushed his finger harder before lifting his hand altogether and gathering it into a fist that he left dangling on his side. 

“That’s rich coming from you! I’m trying to be—I’m being an adult, here. Not like you. You ignored me all day, you didn’t even look at me. You barely treat me like a conscious human being but I should explain all my fucking feelings to you the second I feel them?!”

Paul opened his mouth to answer and came up short. Something in John’s voice – the clear, inevitable hurt – made him want to slap himself and to do everything in his power to erase it. To make sure John would never feel like that ever again.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” He finally whispered, still staring straight into John’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t… realize you felt it that way.”

In a matter of seconds, Paul could see softness appear in John’s eyes, slowly overtaking the lingering anger. He lifted his fist again, hesitated and then tapped it gently on Paul’s chest. 

“You… God, you’re such a fucking arsehole sometimes,” He let out in an exhausted breath.

Paul chuckled lightly, knowing there was no way he could defend himself from that. 

“But you still love me, yeah?”

John pursed his lips, tapping his fist against Paul’s chest a couple more times before flattening his hand on it.

“Unfortunately,” He admitted with a small voice.

Still feeling uncertain and a bit rattled, Paul rose a hand to grip John’s fingers in his, still over his chest. He was relieved not to be shaken off and his shoulders relaxed a bit.

“Don’t do it again. Don’t keep things like that from me,” John told him in a quiet voice, his gaze lost somewhere on their tangled hands.

With his free arm Paul grabbed him and pulled him close to him, burying his nose in John’s neck and breathing him deeply.

“I’m sorry,” He repeated in a murmur. “I only meant to protect you.”

After a couple of seconds of silence, John sighed.

“Yeah.”

John hugged him back and they just stood in their quiet embrace in the empty studio. Paul had nearly forgotten where they were. All that mattered was the rhythm of John’s breathing and the warmth of his body.

“Are you sure we… that Tara’s death is, you know,” John started suddenly, his voice almost loud in their little bubble of reassurance. “That we have nothing to do with it?”

Paul only hugged him harder, raising his head to drop a big, tender kiss on his cheek.

“Positive,” He affirmed. “I guess… It must have been fate, you know? You… _yours_ was nothing like that. It can and will be prevented. It’s totally different.”

John hummed in his arms, although he was avoiding Paul’s searching eyes. Paul kissed his temple, his lips lingering on the soft skin. After a moment John’s arms released their grip on him and they separated from each other with small, still a tad awkward smiles. They both decided without a word that it was time to leave. There was no one left in Abbey Road, with it being nearly three in the morning, and they could even indulge into holding hands in the empty hallways.

They were nearly at the door of the studio when John stopped walking and lightly tugged on Paul’s hand to urge him to stop too. Paul obeyed and turned an expectant face towards him.

“I want to tell our friends. I don’t care what Brian says,” John declared in a serious tone.

Paul just looked at him, at a loss for words. 

“…Now?” Was all that came out.

“Yeah,” John nodded. “I mean, just, not in ten years, you know. Just… I want them to know.”

Paul stared at him, not quite sure he perceived all the reasons behind this demand.

“But… why? I mean, we. It’s not urgent, is it? The lads know, like. It’s not…”

John just looked at him, probably trying to understand what point there was between his nonsensical string of words. Paul kept on talking, feeling a bit uncomfortable in this conversation. 

“We don’t… Let’s not brag, yeah? I mean—”

“But I do want to brag!” John intervened with surprising force.

Paul pulled his head back, taken aback.

“But why?!” He couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Because! I am bloody fucking proud!”

Paul gasped a little, at once overwhelmed by the clear sincerity in John’s voice and the determination in his eyes. His heart skipped a beat and his treacherous neck was definitely growing redder. But then John shrugged a bit embarrassedly and added:

“Not everyone gets to nail the infamous Paul McCartney, you know.”

Paul snorted. A smile was fighting to break on his face.

“Okay, that’s, hum—” He chuckled.

John pulled on his hand again, forcing him to come just that one step closer.

“Look, it’s just…” John started with a gentle voice. “I want to be able to, you know. Hug you when you’re too stressed, or you me or whatever. I’m not saying I would do it, but. I want to be able to do it, you know? To know that if I wanted to I could kiss you when we’re on a break or something. Or when I’m leaving earlier than you. I just want to be allowed to say goodbye to you without checking everywhere around me like I’m committing a crime. It’s not that much to ask, is it?”

He paused, looked at their hands again. 

“I’m not saying we should tell everyone. Just, our friends. The people we see every day. The ones we invite home sometimes. Mal, Neil, George the second. You’re like, super best friends with Mal. Don’t you want to tell him?”

Paul shifted his weight from one foot to the next. His skin was itchy and he was too hot in his thick jacket. His mind was still reeling from their fight and the sting of anxiety still throbbed in his chest, near his heart. He was definitely not ready for this conversation. He tightened his fingers around John’s without really noticing it and his breath blocked in his throat a couple of times.

“Can you just… Can we wait, a bit, please? I’m… maybe we can see how the girlfriend thing goes first, just to, you know. Get it out of the way. Please?”

John bit on his inner cheeks, his eyes never leaving Paul’s, then ever so slightly nodded. He was not smiling, but it was better than nothing. 

“Yeah. Yeah, okay, I guess.”

Paul smiled, and leaned in to drop a small kiss on his lips.

“We should go home,” He told John when he leant back. “Martha must have filed a missing person report for me already.”

John snorted (even though he was clearly trying not to) but agreed and they let go of each other before opening the entry doors. Outside the night was dark, and the neighbourhood quiet. As they parted ways, John to his car and Paul on foot, it felt like London was in on their fragile truce. The silence of the streets accompanied their twirling thoughts with the loud echo of their footsteps.

Even if some weight had been lifted off Paul’s shoulders, he quickly found that his day-to-day life remained somewhat odd. There was a strange sensation looming over him, an uneasiness he could not quite get rid of that always lurked in the corner of his mind, popping up at the most unexpected moments. Things were going alright, though: work was advancing relatively good, the album was shaping up well, George was getting closer to the band again, step by step, no one suddenly died or got sick, Paul had not grown a moustache this time. Paul and John managed to spend time together off work, sleeping together either at Paul’s flat or in John’s other house a couple of nights a week. John even started taking the habit of calling Paul over more often when he was alone with Julian, which Paul appreciated greatly. He loved kids, loved that specific kid, and watching John turning into a more attentive father than he had been in Paul’s past was the greatest development he could have hoped for. Really, the only tangible element that justified any turmoil was the ominous possibility of Paul’s and Ringo’s return to the future. The prospect was terrifying, as much by its probability as by the uncertainty surrounding it, and Paul tried hard not to let it pervade his mind, but he regularly found himself lying awake in the middle of the night, staring at the ceiling and feeling utterly crushed by the fear he might be leaving from one day to the next.

It was nearing the end of March when Brian arranged a meeting between Paul and his eventually to-be public girlfriend. Paul had thought it would be better to meet her privately first, even if just to make sure they actually could stand each other. So they met directly at Brian’s home on one sunny afternoon. Paul’s palms were sweaty and he couldn’t get out of his head the sad resigned face John had made when he had told him about the meeting, but apart from that the encounter went well. The woman was actually very nice, and easy to talk to. Her name was Bernice, she was a bit older than Paul (well, physically at least) and Chinese-American. Paul actually really liked her art, and they spent most of the afternoon talking about it and about the influence of the zen culture. She casually told Paul she was a lesbian, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and Paul could feel Brian’s eyes on his face studying his reactions. Paul did not actually know how much Bernice was aware of; she had not seem surprised to see him arrive whatever it be, and nothing in her conversation suggested that she cared about who he was altogether. She rarely came to England, and Brian told him it was one of the reasons why he thought it would be a good public match – nobody would judge if they saw each other randomly. Since she wasn’t vocal about her personal life at all, there was not much to do: it was enough to have Paul go to a couple of events with her and let people speculate. It reassured Paul to see that he didn’t even have to lie. The simple fact to have a new female acquaintance in his entourage was enough to keep the press occupied and to have his other relationships left alone for a while. He was so glad to have met a new friend that he called John right from Brian’s house and told him all about it when Brian and Bernice were talking about shared friends. On the phone, John had at first sounded distant and cautious, but had warmed up a little when Paul suggested they should go for dinner the four of them, and that John would actually love Bernice. The fact that Bernice was not interested in men at all also considerably improved John’s mood.

Two days later thus found Paul sitting at a tapas restaurant table chatting with Brian and waiting for the other two to arrive. This was total uncharted territory, and Paul was nervous. He knew John did not have any rational reason to still be jealous, but he also knew how unpredictable the man could be. He still did not know if the whole situation was a good idea or not, or even just if it really was useful or necessary, but he tried to calm himself down by telling himself that whatever happened, this was just a night out with people he enjoyed the company of. It didn’t have to be more than that, and there was no need to add more anxiety into the mix. 

He had just finished ordering some appetizers when his eyes caught a glimpse of Bernice’s long hair coming through the restaurant doors. The restaurant was near-empty as it was already quite late into the evening, but there were still two couples eating closer to the windows. Bernice came to their table straight away in a quick, confident gait and gave them both a sure smile before sliding next to Brian. 

“Good evening boys,” She saluted. “I hope I haven’t made you wait too long. Cabs here drive me crazy, I never see them arrive.”

“We have only just ordered refreshments,” Brian answered in his distinguished accent.

“Is it just the three of us?” Bernice asked as she was turning around to wave at the nearest waiter. 

Paul’s stomach twisted for a second. He sent a look to Brian, but his manager was unfolding his napkin and did not look disturbed whatsoever. He had left Brian take care of setting up their dinner, and had assumed he would warn Bernice what it actually was about – that was, John meeting her. As in, Paul’s _actual_ boyfriend meeting her. But if she didn’t know anyone else was coming…

“No, John should be here soon, I assume,” Brian answered easily, checking his watch. 

Paul observed Bernice’s face carefully as she turned back around, but she did not seem phased. Did she just not connect the dots? Did she know which John he was talking about? Or did she just think this was a dinner between mates…? Panic slowly rose in him and he talked himself into calming down. Now that he reflected on their first meeting, he realized he had not mentioned John, and neither had Brian. He knew Bernice knew that Paul needed her to divert people’s attention from his actual relationship, but she probably had no idea that it involved John, of all people… 

“What did you order?” Bernice asked as she took the menu in her hands and started reading it.

“Just a pitcher of sangria,” Paul said in what he hoped was a normal voice. “And a mixed platter. Nothing much.”

“I am starving though, I’m gonna need more than two slices of ham,” Bernice replied with a raise of eyebrows and an easy smile.

Paul chuckled and looked at the door right when John was entering it. He was not wearing his glasses (the stubborn bastard) but had put on Paul’s striped knit vest over a blue long-sleeved t-shirt. Paul’s heart grew at the sight but as John spotted them and came closer, he started panicking a bit. John thought Bernice knew about them – what if he just started acting accordingly? Bernice was bound to find out at some point but Paul was already cringing. He was not ready for an awkward conversation. He was not even sure he was ready to actually _tell_ someone about them. Not like that, not with a near-stranger, not in a public restau—

“Hello all,” John’s voice suddenly said right next to the table, right next to Paul, so close he could already feel the heat emanating from him. “I would say sorry I’m late but it’s you who are being early, really.”

Paul could not detach his eyes from Bernice’s face, scrutinizing her every expression to know exactly what she was thinking. She welcomed John with that same easy smile, her eyebrows raising up the tiniest bit. Was that surprise? Or cheerfulness? Or just a natural meaningless twitch of her muscles? He blacked out for a few seconds and suddenly John was sitting next to him and smiling at him, his thigh coming up flush against Paul’s. He smiled back, a bit on automatic mode, and tried not to startle when John’s hand came to squeeze his knee before gently resting on his leg.

The food they ordered arrived shortly after, and Paul was glad for the distraction. They started eating and talking about London and how complicated it was sometimes to find one’s bearings in it. John was surprisingly friendly, and talkative, even though it did not escape Paul’s attention that his left hand was nearly the whole time glued possessively on Paul’s thigh. Paul participated in the conversation as normally as possible, and thankfully it was easy for him to take a genuine interest in what people were saying even when his own mind was crowing under the stress of Bernice actually finding out about them. _This is stupid. Stop it, you’re ridiculous_, he kept repeating himself. Her knowing was _the whole freaking point_. There was nothing to agonize like that about. The dinner was going along fine, they were not talking about any personal subjects, John was agreeable, Brian was in a very good mood, Bernice was funny and unapologetic. It was all fine. Maybe she wouldn’t even have to find out in the end. 

“So, Bernice.” John suddenly said when the conversation came to a natural dull, popping an olive into his mouth and focusing intensely on her. Then, pointing his head towards Paul, he added: “You’re really ok with all this then? Doesn’t bother you at all?”

Paul felt his stomach drop and struggled to maintain an easy smile on his face. In an attempt not to stare at her, he let his eyes wander over the table but soon found himself zoning back in on her again.

She looked surprised for a second, and Paul’s throat grew dry, but she just glanced at Brian and gave John an amused half-smile.

“You mean, for Paul? Well, no, it doesn’t. I mean, it doesn’t change much for me, really,” She answered with a shrug. “Plus Brian’s my man, if I can do something to help him out, I will.” 

She winked at Brian, who chuckled softly, laid back in his seat. 

“You’re not interested in screaming out to the world that half the Beatles are fags, then,” John added, a hint of provocation lying under his apparent playfulness.

Well, there it was.  
Paul’s breath got hitched in his throat and he carefully observed Bernice’s face. She was staring straight back at John, and did not seem intimidated. Her face was unreadable for a moment. She cast a glance at Paul and then a slow, insightful smile appeared on her lips. 

“I don’t think my screaming out anything would ever be louder than your music, now, would it?”

There was a moment of awkward silence, and Paul saw from the corner of his eye Brian shuffle uncomfortably on his seat. He knew Bernice did not mean anything bad by that and was simply playing along, but he still glanced at John with a little apprehension of his reaction. John looked at her with raised eyebrows, until suddenly laughter bubbled out of him. 

“Alright, alright. A bit savage of you, but I deserved that one I guess,” He relented in-between giggles. 

Paul turned to him and could not stop the giggles overtaking him as well, fuelled by his relief and his embarrassment. He was uncomfortable, and wanted to go home and forget that John was a man for a while, which only made him feel vaguely nauseous and guilty as hell. This, them together, was alright. Everything was alright. There was nothing wrong. 

And yet, when the dinner finally came to an end and they all said their goodbyes in front of the restaurant, Paul was relieved beyond words to see John only squeeze his arm with a warm smile before he left and found his chauffeur waiting for him.

The days following their dinner with Bernice and Brian left Paul feeling odd and slightly uncomfortable. He could not pinpoint what it was actually that made him feel like that, but somehow he was even more cautious of the way their relationship could appear to others. He knew John was a bit frustrated by it at times, especially since he wanted them to just tell the truth to their closest friends and colleagues. However, whenever an occasion rose to actually come out to them, Paul always found a good excuse, be it bad timing, his mood not being right or the moment being too soon. It made John grumpy and they at times snapped at each other because of it, but overall John always ended up accepting it. Sometimes, it seemed to Paul that his boyfriend was simply not capable of staying mad at him for too long.

On April 2nd, Paul and John agreed to go with Julian on Parliament’s hill to enjoy the rising of the sun there. It was the last day they would be able to enjoy one another freely before Paul was to fly over to San Francisco with Mal for a few days, to enjoy the occasion to “publicly” hang out with Bernice and check out a couple of artistic places along the way. Paul was actually kind of happy of going; Bernice was quickly growing to be a good friend, and spending time with Mal was always a pleasure. The idea of leaving John was not alluring though, and Paul was happy to be able to spend some privileged time with him, far from the eyes of anyone. And seeing it was barely past 6am, it was safe to say they would be alone on the hill.

Despite the ungodly hour, Julian was running happily ahead of them with Martha, his little feet frequently getting caught up in the pebbles and tall grass. Paul watched him go with a smile, enjoying the early morning breeze caressing his hair and grazing his soft from sleep skin. A hand suddenly slipped against his and he turned to a shyly smiling John. Paul glanced quickly around him to make sure no one was around and then laced his fingers through John’s. He observed his boyfriend’s face, the sharp angles of his jaw and the softness of his eyes, and when a sudden realization came upon him he could not stop the giggle that escaped him.

“What?” John asked with a confused smile.

“Nothing,” Paul answered, quickly checking where Julian was. “Just thinking I’m a bit relieved you didn’t follow the flow and grow a moustache, this time.”

John chuckled and scratched his nose with his free hand. 

“Not my strongest look, eh?”

“No,” Paul chuckled. “Though to be fair I tried it too and it was much worse. I looked like a kid trying to play detective.”

John let out a brief, radiant laughter and then tried to school his face. 

“To be honest, I did think about growing one, but then I figured kissing Watson might freak you out.”

“Does he have a moustache?” Paul frowned, reflecting on the various versions of Watson he knew.

John raised an amused eyebrow at him. 

“Well, in my world he does. I don’t know about the XXIst millennium.”

“Daddy!”

They both turned their heads to the sound and Paul instinctively tried to free his hand from John’s but John only tightened his grip on him. Paul watched Julian run back towards them and tried not to freak out. He was a child. He would probably not connect any dots at all. Julian stopped in John’s legs and pointed at a tree a bit farther up, while Martha was circling around them with her tail waving furiously.

“There is a bird’s house!” He exclaimed excitedly.

“A nest?” John replied.

“No, no, his house! He lives here!”

“Oh, sorry, your honour,” John retorted in a funny voice.

“Can you show me?” Paul asked, genuinely interested.

“Yes!” 

Julian took his hand and dragged him along towards the tree. When John was forced to let go of Paul’s hand, Paul just shrugged amusedly at him. He followed the little boy to the tree and saw the nest from which soft peeping was coming. There had to be tiny chicks inside, but even from Paul’s height he could not actually see them. Paul took Julian in his arms so that he could see it better and they both studied the nest for a good while, theorizing with whispers on where the mother and father could be. 

“Lads, we should keep on walking if you don’t want to miss the sun. It’s almost 6:30,” A nasal voice informed behind them.

“You ready for the sun, little lad?” Paul asked Julian, whose arms were secured around his neck.

Julian nodded excitedly and Paul put him back down. Julian immediately found his hand again, and took John’s too. The sight of the three of them holding hands like a regular family made Paul’s stomach twinge with melancholy. They were alone on the hill, and after a short walk they arrived at the top overlooking the city. As the sun only starting to poke out behind a few clouds, the three of them sat down on the wet grass, Julian insisting on sitting in front of them with John’s legs as his backseat. Martha was having a field day, sniffing about everything she could find in the whole area she had just for herself (!). The sunrise was beautiful, and unusually easy to see with how clear the sky was. It was soothing, to see the soft pinkish and orange lights colouring the clouds, to have John’s heat against his hip, his hand on his back, and to hear Julian’s laughter from having freed his feet from his shoes and from dangling them in front of their faces. Noticing that they were still completely alone, Paul pulled up the collar of his jacket (it was a bit colder than he had expected) and leant his head against John’s shoulder, enjoying the fact that Julian was not really paying attention to them and was more absorbed by the sunlight catching on the droplets still sprinkled on the grass.

At some point Julian turned to them and Paul quickly lifted his head, but the child only got up and leant on John’s propped up knees to talk to them.

“Listen. Listen there is no noise,” He told them in a whisper.

“No, there isn’t. It’s ‘cause it’s early. Everyone’s sleeping,” John explained calmly. 

Paul sat a bit straighter and pretended to listen carefully, one hand behind his ear.

“What is that? Did someone speak to us?” He pretended to ask.

“Yes, me,” Julian answered with a louder voice and a giggle.

“I can’t hear anything.” Paul went on. Then, turning to John: “Wait. Can you hear that tiny squirrel voice?”

John’s eyes twinkled back.

“Well, no, no, I can’t hear anything.”

“Daddyyyyy yes you can hear me!” Julian whined, but he had an unsure smile overtaking his face.

“There it is again, the tiny squirrel voice,” Paul continued, leaning farther towards Julian but still looking only at John with wide eyes. “Okay, I’m gonna try to make the squirrel come here.”

Then he breathed deeply and suddenly shouted:

“SQUIRREL! Come here squirrel! We can be friends, I love hazelnuts too!”

John leaned away, grimacing and covering his left ear.

“Jesus,” He let out, chuckling.

“I’m not a squirrel!” Julian protested loudly, still smiling at Paul.

“I love trees!” Paul went on still as loud, glancing happily towards Julian. “And, and I love raspberries!”

“I love… I love pancakes!” Julian giggled with a loud voice.

“Yes!” Paul encouraged him strongly. “I love pancakes too! And muffins!”

“And—and snails!”

“Yeah! Go snails!” 

Paul turned to John, who was chuckling half-embarrassedly next to them.

“Come on Johnny. What do you love? Shout it to the world!”

“Yes, shout daddy!”

John seemed to hesitate for a second, and grimace-smiled as he was looking for ideas.

“I love… raccoons with hats!” He finally shouted.

Julian started giggling uncontrollably, which only prompted John to go on even louder.

“I love bananas with mustard!”

Julian burst out laughing and Paul soon followed, the pure joy of the little boy being infectious. 

“I loooove…” John went on, smiling hard too now. “Rats gardening with rakes! And I love guitars with pink legs! And I love James Paul McCartney!”

Paul’s laughter got caught in his throat but Julian giggled even more, leant in and grabbed his father’s knee, turning curious eyes to him.

“Who?” He asked in-between giggles. 

John watched his son kneel in the grass next to him and slip his tiny arms around his propped up leg. When he was sure he had Julian’s attention, he tapped Paul’s arm.

“Well, our Paul, here.”

Paul felt his whole face burn under the sudden attention of the nearly four-year-old. Was John actually _coming out to his son_?!

“John, um I’m not sure—” He started hesitatingly.

“You love him?” Julian asked with a small, uncertain voice, his eyes travelling between Paul and his father.

“Yes, I do,” John confirmed along with a nod. “Just like I loved your mum when I had you.”

Julian looked at him pensively, two fingers playing with his lower lip. He glanced at Paul again and leant further into his dad.

“So I’m going to have a little brother?” He asked in a loud whisper.

There was a few seconds of silence, then both John and Paul started giggling like idiots. Paul couldn’t help it – the genuine wonder in the little boy’s voice just erased all his irrational fears. John patted his son’s back to calm himself down and finally answer to him.

“Hum, no, no, that’s, um… That’s not really how it works, but let’s keep that for a later chat, yeah?”

Julian nodded, still clearly confused. Paul calmed down too, and fear gripped him again. He cleared his throat and turned a bit on his now soaked bottom to be facing the other two.

“Look, Jules,” He started, getting the attention of both Lennons. “If people ask you about your dad and… me, you know. Just tell them it’s not their business, you know?”

“Jesus, Paul, relax,” John intervened with a frown. “He’s three. Kids don’t give a sh—don’t care.”

“I’m four!” Julian countered.  


John briefly looked at him with big eyes.

“Not yet, you liar. You’ll be four on Saturday.”

Julian hid playfully under his legs and John turned back to Paul, his frown lighter, but still there.

“Seriously, though. Stop overthinking. We are good,” He told him softly. “He won’t say anything.”

Paul looked into his genuine eyes, trying to soak in the reassuring vibes John was emitting. 

“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” He nodded.

When the frisk hair and their wet pants finally made them shiver, the three of them plus Martha got up and started to walk back down the hill, stopping to check again on the nest on the way. The day promised to be a lovely one, and Paul was set on enjoying it as much as his stupidly anxious brain would let him.

He was about to enter into his car (in which he had picked John and Julian up) when John leant close to him, brushed his hand on Paul’s small back and whispered in his ear:

“I kinda want to see you with a moustache, now.”

Finding himself in San Francisco with Mal again, but this time without the prospect of surprising Jane, was another odd experience Paul had added to his endless list of re-enactments. Even though he cruelly missed John, he was glad to be away from England, from the pressure of work and of having to second-guess his every gesture. Bernice was very friendly, and her efforts to make them both feel comfortable were efficient. Paul actually loved San Francisco, the colours of the city, its people, its spirit. It was a lovely holiday, and having Mal with him made it twice better. There was music, inspiration and excitement even if technically there could not be any ground-breaking discovery for him. He breathed it all in, enjoyed the moment to clear his head, fill his lungs and tame his lingering anxiety that seemed to be part of him now. It was also the occasion to visit libraries and bookshops to look for the sci-fi magazine with Briony’s story. He did it without thinking too much about it, and set up for himself the habit of entering any place with books he could find, dragging a clueless Mal along. He was not sure what he was hoping to find: the end of her story, the why and how of her going back, the very reason of her departure. Most of all, somewhere deep in him, he harboured the hope to find a way to stop himself from actually going back. Or at least, a way to control whether he would leave or not. 

As he kept on searching, and kept on coming up empty, he realized he had no idea what would be more preferable in the end. 

When Paul came back to the UK around ten days later, it was with a sunburnt nose and sweets into every free corner of his bag. Mal was driving him home, and Paul absently stroked his slight growing moustache. As he was watching the blurry houses of the landscape, he wondered how John was doing. They were supposed to see each other that night, over at John’s other house. He was happy about it – of course he was –, but he was also somewhat dreading it for a reason he couldn’t quite put his finger on. They were doing good, had not had any big fight again, but he felt uneasy, as if his mind and his heart couldn’t settle long enough to let him enjoy what was right in front of him. No matter how lovely John was being, Paul felt like there was an invisible wall between them that he did not know how to shatter. He was not able to tell if that wall was there only in his mind or for real, and that terrified him. And every time he tried to think more thoroughly about it, the fact that he might go back to the future soon slapped him again and he was left feeling cold and out of breath. 

It was probably all in his head anyway. They were fine. 

Finally Mal dropped him off in Gloucester Gate in the afternoon, and Paul smiled at the thought of seeing his dear pets again. He had quite missed them too. Mal leaned over the passenger seat to smile at him, his thick glasses slipping on his nose. Paul approached the window, blinking against the sun that was starting to set.

“Don’t eat all those snacks at once, yeah?” Mal teased him. “There’s a photoshoot soon. You wouldn’t want to look like a baby whale on it.”

Paul laughed and shook his head, waving at him as he turned around. Suitcase in hand, he went into the building, stopped at his mailbox and slowly treaded up the stairs, feeling jetlag already pulling at his eyelids and leaving his feet heavier than they should be. When he arrived at the third floor, he opened the door with one hand and was immediately jumped on by a big ball of fur. 

“Hey, hey girl,” He chuckled as he somehow entered the flat, Martha striving to put her paws on him while barking excitedly. “Hi, how are you? Good? Hi. Yes, I’ve missed you too. Good girl.”

He closed the door behind him and put his suitcase down, squatting to take Martha’s head in his hands and to dig his fingers into her curly fur. 

“And have you missed me?”

Paul’s head snapped up.  
John was there, leaning against the wall at the entrance of the kitchen. Paul got up, his smile growing out of instinct, and walked quickly to him. Just as John pushed himself off of the wall, smiling too, Paul slipped his hands on his neck and kissed him sweetly but with more force than either of them had expected. John slid his arms around his waist and Paul kissed him firmly, one, two, three times, only stopping to lower John’s head and to drop another soft kiss on his forehead. With an absent hand, John caressed his own lip and chuckled.

“You did it. The moustache.”

Paul grinned at him.

“Enjoy it while it lasts. I won’t bear it for long.”

John kissed one side of his moustache and put his hand back on Paul’s waist.

“It tickles. It’s weird,” He told him with another giggle.

Paul simply grinned harder. They looked at each other in silence, both smiling half-happy, half-embarrassed. Paul caressed the hair off of John’s face, brushed his jaw, his eyebrows. He had missed him. Terribly so. So he leant in and kissed him again, deeper this time. He felt John’s hands tighten around him and his breath get short. Paul pressed himself closer to him, enjoying the closeness, the warmth, the electricity – the raw desire he could feel vibrating between them, still a wonder even after all those months. John’s hands were travelling on his back and his bum now, struggling to sneak under Paul’s clothes. Feeling already too hot in his skin, Paul grabbed his shirt and pulled him with him, walking backwards into the living-room and aiming blindly for the couch. John giggled when they bumped into the coffee table and made Thisbe run away fast as a lightning bold. They fell unceremoniously onto the couch, John propping himself on one of his elbows not to crush Paul under him. They kissed heatedly, every single point of contact lighting a fire in Paul’s blood. John pulled back to take off his shirt, and helped Paul get out of his too, not without difficulties. Then, with a grin, John dived back onto Paul’s lips, capturing them teeth first with a groan that made Paul’s head dizzy. 

He shuffled on his bum to settle more comfortably in the couch, one of Martha’s toys digging uncomfortably in his lower back. Judging from its shape, it had to be the pineapple one. It was actually a toy he had “re-bought”, in a way, because it was one Linda had offered him on one of their first dates, ages ago now. When he had recognized it in some random shop, he just had not been able to stop himself. Maybe it was odd, or misplaced sentimentalism, but he actually cared about that one specific squishy toy. 

Unsuspecting of Paul’s diverting thoughts, John slid his hand into Paul’s briefs, his fingers warm and sure. Paul arched into it, trying to shoo the parasite thoughts away. He opened his mouth in a panting breath, his lips still brushing against John’s, and after a few moments of swift movements from his lover, he started frowning. He felt John first slow his movements, then move his weight from one elbow to the other. When Paul opened his eyes, John was looking straight at him already.

“You… are you okay?” He asked on a sort of awkward tone. 

The second Paul realized what was happening, he let his head drop on the couch, embarrassment already scratching at him. He closed his eyes again and brought his hands on them in a poor, aimless attempt at hiding his flushed face. 

“Fuck,” He whispered angrily. 

John shifted above him, and pushed Paul’s legs to somehow sit next to him. Shame was making Paul want to scream. He rubbed his face, hard, and sat up too. His naked chest now felt like a beacon throwing a spotlight on his humiliation. They stayed sitting next to each other in silence for a moment, their still loud breathing the only sound in the apartment.

“I’ve gotta ask, though,” John piped up after a while, almost making Paul startle. “Is it the moustache? Did it kill your libido?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

John looked at him with raised eyebrows, biting on his lip as if to shut himself up. He took a glass of water he had to have left on the coffee table previously and started sipping on it, his shoulders tremoring and giving him away.

“Stop laughing,” Paul growled.

“I’m not laughing,” John _laughed_, covering his mouth with his free hand.

“Fuck you, you’re literally snorting water out of your nose, just… urgh!”

Paul got up and marched towards his bathroom, and he could hear John still laughing behind him, the _bloody bastard_. Paul closed the bathroom door behind him and leant over the sink, looking at his flushed and dishevelled face staring back at him in the mirror. His lips were bitten red, and he could still feel the ghost of John’s hands and mouth over him. What the hell was wrong with him?! Why couldn’t he just enjoy one thing for fucking once?

Feeling odd and ridiculous, he figured he could do what people did in movies when they felt out of it and opened the tap to splash some cold water on his face. Which did not actually help, although his cheeks were not burning as much now. He heard a soft tap on the door and sighed before turning his head to it.

“Yeah?”

The answer did not come right away, and was so low he could barely hear it.

“Is… did I do something? Is this because of me…?”

Paul pushed himself off of the sink and went to open the door. He ended up face to face with a calmed down, now sheepish-looking John. Paul hesitated for a second before responding.

“I’m sorry,” He finally said. “No you didn’t, not at all—I want you. Just, urgh. Sorry, I’m so jetlagged.”

John nodded, still biting on his lip, his eyes trailing over Paul’s body then back up to his face. 

“Can I still stay here? Or I can go to the house and wait for you for later. Or tomorrow, I don’t mind. I can get it if you need time to… regroup.”

The last word had come on a cautious tone, and sure enough, Paul noticed the amused glint had come back in his eyes. He poked John’s shoulder in a grumpy show. 

“Sod off. Stay. Do you mind if I just eat and sleep though?”

“Not at all,” John smiled. “I’m actually kind of starving myself.”

“Great. I brought you lots of sweets."

“Yay!”

The two of them made a beeline for the kitchen, and as they started chatting about Paul’s trip and about how well behaved his beloved pets had been in his absence, calm and peace slowly came back over Paul. He was still a bit embarrassed and couldn’t quite look in the direction of the living-room yet, but it was better than nothing. 

When the day of the Sergeant Pepper shooting came, Paul’s moustache was just as furnished as it had been the first time around, and John had agreed to grow one too – although for some odd reason he refused to let Paul kiss him the whole time he had it. It was actually the first event in quite a few weeks that ended up happening nearly exactly the same way it had in the past (even if the photoshoot had been postponed this time because of the whole Bernice business). It was reassuring, in a way, but also just reminded Paul of just how much he had altered the rest of their lives. As they followed the various poses the photographer asked them to take, he could not help but reflect on everything that had changed compared to his first past.

The first time around, this had been one of the most artistically productive periods of his life. A lot of marijuana had been involved, LSD too, but even beyond that the band had been pretty much on fire with new ideas and new concepts they couldn’t wait to experiment. Revolution had been in the air, and Paul had felt it deep within his soul. He had been with Jane, still, although the relationship was a bit on the rocks if his memory served him well, and John had still been married. Or, well, _really_ married. And now… now, revolution was in the air again, colours had started spreading in the streets and they were just as productive, even minus the drugs (Paul was not naïve enough to believe John and George were actually clean, but they were significantly less stoned). But Paul’s personal life couldn’t have been more different, and John’s too. When he looked over at him, that day, and saw his smiling face, with the moustache and the glasses, and those suits that had become legendary when Paul came from, Paul felt sadness and guilt submerge him.

He had had an enormous impact on John’s life already, even though he had promised himself at first not to change the past too much. It had felt inevitable along the way, and falling in love with John had never really felt like a choice he was making, but he still felt guilty about it. John was young, hopeful. Bursting with talent through every seam. He had a whole life ahead of him and yet he was stuck in a closet with Paul, who was too chicken to even tell their close friends they were dating. Even if it was stupid, a nagging voice kept hissing in his head that telling people meant putting John in danger, and putting John in danger meant he _could_ meet his past fate. He knew, he _knew_ he was being paranoid, but aging as a white man confident in his heterosexuality had made him more inclined to expect all those horrible things he had seen on TV about happen to LGBTQ people to happen for real, to him, to John. He was scared – terrified, even. 

John was the bravest man he had ever known. He looked like he was ready to dive headfirst into whatever their future could be together. And Paul was simply not capable to follow him with as much hope and motivation. When he pictured the future, all he saw was their closed ones turning their backs on them, he saw AIDS, he saw the public being disgusted by them. It would get better, he knew it would, and he knew having Bernice around would probably not be a good idea _a posteriori_, but he couldn’t help it. Right now problems seemed endless, which caused him to worry obsessively, and to recoil from it all. And that was not fair on John, was it? God, he didn’t even know Paul might be ripped from the past and sent back to the future at any moment. 

Every night they spent together, Paul thought about how it could be the last one ever and felt like he was dying over and over again. From one minute to the next he could be gone, back with his family, and John would be alone. Or with a clueless, stupid young Paul. What would become of them both then? For John to be faced with that not-in-love-with-him version of him again would probably be horrible. And poor young Paul, he would find himself without his girlfriend, and sort of without his best friend too. That was assuming young Paul actually was currently in the future in his place, in his old body, which Paul had no idea whether was the case or not. But he did not know anything anyway, so that option was not more farfetched than any other. The mere idea of an “option” made Paul snort internally. Who was he kidding? He had no option here. He wasn’t in control of anything. He was bound to go back to the future, very fucking likely, and as long as they didn’t find the rest of Briony’s story they had next to no chance of finding out how, and when, and _why_. The best thing Paul could do to John, to all of them really, would be to break things off now and avoid later, harsher heartbreak. But he was too selfish to let go of him. He breathed in every little bit of attention from John he could get as if it was oxygen, ignoring how he was falling deeper and deeper into a doomed situation. And yet, most days since he had come back from San Francisco, he couldn’t help but feel that distance, that invisible wall between the two of them. It was driving him mad, so he compensated with work, which was the easiest language he had ever found to talk with people anyway. 

As they left the photoset that day and all parted ways, Paul indulged himself into hugging John for longer than necessary. It was weird, and even John chuckled embarrassedly, but in that very moment Paul could not let go of him.

They were rehearsing ‘Magical Mistery Tour’, and everyone was in a weird mood. They had started talking about their tax revenue issue and the topic of creating an umbrella company had already come up, but Paul was reluctant to talk about it, which surprised everyone except his bandmates. No matter how many times Ringo told him there was a way for them to make it in a healthier and safer way this time, Paul just refused to listen. Somewhere in his mind, he hoped he could postpone the issue long enough not to deal with it at all. Young Paul could bother; he had given enough already.

So that day in rehearsals, Paul was unusually silent and the others were walking on eggs around him. Weirdly enough, John was the most cautious of them all, which was out of character from such an expressive, unapologetic person. The four of them were alone for a while, milling around on their instruments whereas the technicians were trying to solve an electric problem that had annoyed them all a good part of the afternoon. 

“Isn’t it weird with Mo?” George suddenly asked out of nowhere. 

Paul lifted his head from the piano and saw him watching Ringo with a pensive face. Behind him, John kept playing his guitar, his eyes fixed on his fingers. It was odd to be reminded suddenly that George knew about them, and that he _believed_ them. When he realized he hadn’t really talked about it with him since his revelation, Paul felt guilty again.

Ringo breathed deeply, looking at the ceiling for an answer before pouting wistfully.

“A bit,” He admitted finally. “She’s sort of my best friend, and I tried to explain to her why she wasn’t like, more, anymore, but she has a hard time with it I think.”

“You actually told her?!” Paul intervened, genuinely surprised. 

How the hell could he not know that?!

“I tried, at least,” Ringo shrugged. “I didn’t mention the future _per say_, I just said my memories were all—”

“Fucked,” George supplied on a level tone.

Ringo chuckled, a brief, sharp sound.

“Hum, yeah, I guess.”

George hummed, his elbows still on his guitar, and Paul let his gaze fall down on John behind him. He was still playing, but the uncertainty in his fingers proved he was listening to them.

“Do you still shag though?”

Paul turned his attention back to George, who was again still staring at Ringo. This time Ringo laughed for real.

“God, no. Actually, I told her everything the day she asked if I wanted another baby. I just can’t do it. My heart still belongs to Barbara, you know? I can’t just erase her like that. It doesn't feel right.”

A silence followed his words, and Paul felt George’s and most of all John’s eyes sliding to him, burning his skin. His neck grew hotter and he cleared his throat, opting for humour to lighten his guilt. He just knew what they were all thinking, so might as well assume it.

“Wow. I guess I really am a slag, ain’t I.”

As hoped, that earned him laughter from his bandmates, and when he looked over at John he was relieved to see him smiling too – even if it was a bit shier than he was used to, now.

“Aww, do you want babies with John, then?” George cooed teasingly.

“Sod off.” Paul retorted, chuckling embarrassedly. Then, even though he was not really sure why, he felt the need to add: “As if. _Babies_. Don’t be stupid.”

He chuckled again for good measure, even if for some reason he felt dead inside. George snorted too, but Paul didn’t hear anything from Ringo other than some shuffling. He didn’t dare cast a look, his eyes inevitably drawn in by John’s small, closed in expression behind George. Paul wondered for a moment if he had said the wrong thing (although there was nothing wrong about it. They could not physically have babies, and their relationship was not exactly the kind where the future entailed _babies_ of all things anyway, be it adoption or anything else), but he soon chased the thought away. They all went back to work, and after a couple more hours of music, Paul was happy to find his mind was busy enough not to spiral into questions and fears. 

On the sunny morning of May 15th, a phone call changed everything. 

Paul was eating breakfast on his couch and watching telly, Martha comfortably lying against his legs. They were on a little break of the recording, and Paul was glad to enjoy the time to just relax and take some time to do nothing. He would grow bored of it very quickly – he gave himself two hours -, but it was nice nevertheless. When the phone rang, he picked it up, his eyes never leaving the television. 

“Hullo,” He articulated around his cornflakes.

“Good morning Paul. I hope I am not waking you up,” A gentle voice answered. 

Paul straightened a bit on his seat out of reflex.

“Of course not. I was up with the sun, you know me.”

Brian chuckled on the other end of the line.

“Is there a problem? Is it about tonight?” Paul went on, finally forcing his eyes to look elsewhere and focusing them on Martha instead.

Brian was hosting a party at his house that very night to celebrate the near ending of the album recordings. It was an event Paul was actually looking forward to, as he had kept good memories of it from his past. 

“No – well, not really,” Brian replied. “I just had a call with Bernice, and she told me she is in London. Did she tell you?”

“Hum, no. We’re not that close, you know,” Paul chuckled lightly.

“Yes, well she is going to a club, she said, to watch Georgie Fame and the Blue Fames perform. I thought you could kill two birds with one stone and tag along. If you feel up to it, of course. I know you enjoy his music.”

“Sure, that sounds—”

The words died in Paul’s throats as the dots connected in his head. He froze for a second, then forced himself to ask.

“Wait, where did you say it was?”

There was some ruffling on Brian’s side. 

“Um, at the Bag O’Nails. I don’t know it, personally, but Bernice assured me you were, and I quote ‘cool enough’ to.”

Paul didn’t answer right away, thoughts twirling in his head.  
May 15th 1967, the Bag O’Nails.  
That was where he had met for Linda the first time.

He could faintly hear Brian still speaking through the phone, but none of his words reached him. After a moment of daze, he realized he needed space to think.

“Hum, Brian,” He interrupted – or at least, maybe. “I’m not sure I can go, actually. I’ll see with Bernice. But thank you for the tip. It was… um, it’s a good call.”

“Of course,” Brian responded amiably. “Well, see you tonight, then, right?”

“Yes! See you tonight. Have a lovely day.”

“Goodbye, Paul.”

Paul put the phone back on its base, his fingers feeling like cotton. That was it. The choice he had pushed away and ignored for all this time… there it was, coming to bite him in the face. 

Linda’s face was floating behind his eyes, the loveliest vision. Her smile, her eyes, the softness of her hair, of her skin, of her voice. The wonderful years they had spent together, the pains they had shared, the dreams they had struggled to achieve. It was all there again, at the tip of his fingers. For a few dreamful seconds, it felt like it was just possible to have it all again. To have more. To try again. 

But, _John. _

John. He could not do that to John. He could not endanger what they had – he didn’t want to. He was happy with him, he loved him, and the mere idea of leaving him for someone else made him sick. No, he could not do that, and he did not want to. He felt stupid for thinking it, and yet he couldn’t help but think both choices were betrayals; either to John and what they could share or to Linda and what they had shared. Another, even more vicious voice nagged at him that if there was any betrayal involved, it was to Nancy, and he had crossed that line months ago now. He thought about John again, what they had together. They were good, weren’t they? For now it was hard and complicated, and it seemed like they would never be free. And Paul had no certainty they would be freer _before_ he went back to the future. But… 

But he was selfish, and he loved John, and John loved him. Apparently. He didn’t want to just go back to his safe, secure love waiting for him with Linda. Loving her had been one of the most beautiful things in his life, but it belonged in the past, as ironic as that sounded. What he had with John was precious, and strong. It was a bond that he could not explain, not even to himself, but he knew it was worth it. In a sense, he was sad for young Paul, because when he would come back to the past he would maybe not have a second chance to meet her and to lead the beautiful life Paul had led, but that was a responsibility he could not and would not carry. In the end, the choice was all made. It had been made the moment they had kissed in that Tokyo hotel room. 

Surer of himself than he had been in a good while, he picked up his phone again and dialled John’s number. It had barely rang once when someone answered already, breathlessly and louder than expected. 

“Yes?” 

“Hi, love,” Paul smiled to himself. 

“Hey,” John answered, his voice turning immediately soft. “How are you?” 

“Good, good. I was thinking—do you want to sleepover at mine tonight, after the party?” 

There was a second of white noise. It sounded like John was passing his phone from one hand to the next, and Paul’s heart warmed when he imagined him getting entangled in the chord and trying to get out of it without making noise. 

“Uh, sure. Yeah. But I have Victor coming over tomorrow, so I will have to leave early.” 

“Yeah, of course, no problem,” Paul rushed to assure him. 

“Cool. Well. Do you have something else to say? Because I was actually trying to help Julian repaint his truck and I’ve got paint all over my fingers.” 

Paul laughed heartily. 

“No, I’m good. Go to your son.” He paused, and added suddenly: “I love you.” 

An anxious second passed. 

“I love you too,” John replied so, so softly. 

“Okay. Bye?” 

“Yeah. Bye, love.” 

Paul hesitated, then slowly hung up. It took him a little extra moment to calm down, and to accept that everything was alright. He was with John, they would have a fun party, then a lovely night the two of them. In the morning he would drive John back to his house, and then go off to his own adventures. Maybe he would go to the park with Martha. Or watch a movie, and paint a little. Or go to the sea with Mal.  
The possibilities were endless. 

Three days later, just one evening before the press launch of the album, Paul and John were supposed to spend the night together at Paul’s again. They had nothing much planned (they rarely did, these days), but it was meant to be a quiet, tranquil night. They had been both quite drunk the night of Brian’s party, especially Paul, and they had not done much more than giggling like idiots and trying to play fetch with Martha inside the flat with every object they could lay their hands on. This time, Paul was aiming for something a little more romantic, and that he would hopefully remember a bit better. But when after a couple of hours John had still not showed up, worry started to seep into Paul. He was pacing in his flat now, and checking on his watch more or less every two minutes. At one point, he had even checked it three times in the same minute. John was not the most punctual person, but he was never that late. He rushed to the phone and composed John’s number, the beeping of the phone echoing the loud, jittery beating of his heart. 

After a few rings, a female voice picked up the phone and Paul’s stomach dropped. 

“Hello?” 

“Hi, Cyn,” He replied, plastering on a cheery tone. “How are you?” 

“Good, good, um— is everything alright?” She asked, sounding worried. 

And Paul figured it made sense she would worry right away – it was nearly 10pm, after all. Not a regular time to casually chat with people. 

“Yeah, just, uh… is John home, by any chance?” 

There was a second of silence that only fuelled Paul’s anxiety. 

“No,” Cynthia finally said, so soft. “I thought he was with you, actually.” 

Paul didn’t respond right away, dozens of gruesome scenarios already playing out in his head. 

“Should I be worried?” Cynthia’s voice continued somewhere in the phone. 

“No, no,” Paul immediately reassured her. “Don’t worry. He must have just, stopped on the way. He’s alright. Probably stopped to get… food.” 

“Okay, okay. Yeah, you’re probably right.” 

“Um… when did he leave, exactly?” 

Paul could only hope she couldn’t hear the growing dread in his voice. There was rustling on the other side, then Cynthia’s voice a bit louder, as if she had come back a bit too close to the phone. 

“Around an hour ago, I’d say. I’m not sure. I haven’t seen him much since he’s come back from Ringo’s.” 

“Alright. Thanks, Cyn. I’ll give you a ring when he’s here, right?” 

“Yes, thank you,” She softly said, and she sounded thankful.

“Sure. Good night,” Paul tacked on just as softly. 

Paul hung up, and stood next to the phone for a good while, patting Martha’s head absently. He didn’t know John had visited Ringo. It was a detail, of course, they didn’t keep tabs on each other’s every movement and the two lived pretty close from one another, but something felt off. He would have thought John would have come to his flat right away, instead of going back to Kenwood before going back out again to vanish into the night. The theory he could be out to get food was a chimerical option.

Paul squatted, his legs feeling too light to support his weight. Hands on his mouth, he thought hard, trying to see it from a logical point of view to not plummet into panic. Where could John be? Assuming he was not dying somewhere in a hospital, or in some ravine, he could be either in his car, in a restaurant, or a theatre maybe, or… 

An idea popped into Paul’s mind and he suddenly straightened back up. He went to fetch his keys, whistled at Martha to follow him and left the flat hurriedly. He reached his car quicker than ever, Martha in tow, and started driving with nervous hands. He did not like this, but he needed to keep a level head. Hopefully the drive was not a very long one, and less than twenty minutes later he was parking in front of John’s second house’s portal. He got out of the car, opened the door for Martha and went to ring at the portal. He rang one, two, five times, but no one answered. Fighting the dread settling in his stomach, he walked along the brick wall towards a tree he knew could give him vision onto John’s house. When he arrived at the tree in question, he lost no time in climbing it, ignoring how that odd behaviour was stressing Martha out and causing her to whine softly. Thankfully he was young and elastic again, even though he did scrape his hands and knees several times in the process. Once he was somehow sitting on a thick branch, he looked out to the house and his heart twinkled with relief.

There was light coming from his living-room. 

Paul was just about to climb further and jump over the wall when a new whine reminded him that he was not alone. He looked back at Martha, feeling bad for her. 

“I can’t take you with me, baby,” He told her in a whisper. 

He then processed to go back down on the ground (and it was even harder than the other way around), patted her briefly and led her to the car in which she jumped happily. He opened the window a bit and locked the car. 

“Be right back.” 

Growing more and more restless, he jogged back to the tree and climbed it again, this time with more difficulty due to his sore arms. He managed to get onto the wall nevertheless, and had no choice but to jump down on the other side, straight into the grass. Since it had been raining all day, the soil was soft enough to cushion his fall, but as he walked to the house he could still feel his shins burning a bit. He really hoped John had a good reason for going MIA on him. 

When he finally reached the house, he knocked on it repeatedly, knowing John was stubborn enough to let him wait outside forever if he did not insist. As expected, after a long moment (and his arm was seriously growing tired by the time) he heard noise on the other side of the door, and then, it opened. 

John looked… bad. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair a mess and he was not wearing pants. Half of his body was leaning on the door and the other was hidden behind it, and from the second their eyes met Paul knew he was high as a kite. 

“What’s going on?” Paul asked, trying to remain calm and rational. “What happened to you? I was waiting for you, you didn’t even call…” 

John looked at him silently, then a lazy, strangely menacing smile took over his face. He pushed the door against the wall and Paul saw he had a half-empty bottle of Smirnoff in his right hand. His heart leaped right in his throat. 

“John, are you alright?” Paul added, slowly. 

John laughed, the sound making Paul cringe. 

“Am I…?” He said, and his voice was slurred, and higher than usual, and it made Paul want to cry a bit. “Oh. Ooooh… I’m not. No, actually. I’m not alright.” 

He stopped, leaned on the door again, his eyes not leaving Paul. He grimaced, then took a few steps back. 

“But get in, be my guest! You’re the king here. The king of everything.” 

Paul watched him stride back into the living-room. He got into the house, feeling like he was walking on broken glass, and closed the door behind him. Then he followed John into the living-room, and was almost surprised to see it looked… normal. There was just another bottle lying on the coffee table, a full glass of something brown, and John’s pants ruffled on the back of the couch. 

“Take a seat, drink a drink! Whatever. Do whatever you want,” John went on. 

He circled back around the coffee table, put the bottle down, sat down heavily and quickly downed the drink still waiting. Paul simply watched him, feeling a bit out of his depth. He knew John when was he was high, and he knew him when he was drunk, and when he was angry. But this, right here, this weird combination of the three plus something else he couldn’t quite read—that was unknown, and frightening. 

“How much have you drunk?” He asked, loud and clear. 

But John merely giggled to himself, leaning forward over the table. Once again, the sound so desperately lacked joy that Paul felt his hair raising on his skin. 

“I know,” John suddenly said in a very serious voice, taking him by surprise. 

Paul frowned, even if a cold sweat was already cursing through his spine. 

“You know what?” He asked slowly. 

John raised his eyebrows in a painfully astonished way. He chuckled, the sound the opposite of joy.

“You can’t even… Fuck. I _know_. You’re going to go back to the future. I know it. Ringo told me.”

Paul’s face fell, along with a heavy weight in his stomach. He gaped at John, his brain short-circuiting.  
John put his glass down on the floor in an awkward movement and stood back up, shaking his head at Paul. His shining eyes were the perfect mix between anger and misery. 

“Oh, and before you go and yell at him as if you had any right to,” He went on. “Ringo didn’t mean to tell me. It just ‘_slipped_’.”

He raised his fingers to mime the word, and white noise was creating a cloud inside Paul’s head. He struggled to keep his attention focused on John. 

“We don’t know what will happen,” He explained, trying to remain calm. “It’s just a possibility.”

“A pretty fucking strong one though, isn’t it?” John countered snappily.

Paul bit his lip, knowing there was no point in sugar-coating it. John was right. 

“Is it funny, for you?” John asked him, staring at him from his spot on the floor and making Paul feel incredibly small. “To watch me… run around, in the dark. Ignorant of everything. Believing all your _pretty_ lies.”

“I didn’t l—“

“You lie all the fucking time, Paul!” John suddenly boomed, his rage and hurt perspiring through every word. “All. The fucking. Time! To everyone. And to me! To _me_?! You had never lied to me before, and now you do it all the time!”

The blow left Paul silent, taken aback. John, an expression of anguish on his face, started counting on his fingers. His movements, even if still a bit sluggish, suddenly seemed much more sober. There was no doubt he meant every word.

“You lied about the letter, you lied about the neighbours, about— you lied about the girlfriend thing, you—you lied about Tara’s death! You lied about the fact that you’re going _back to the fucking future_!”

“It’s not sure!” Paul rushed to amend, cringing at himself.

John’s joyless, cruel chuckle was more hurtful than all his sarcastic words.

“Oh, thank God, it’s not sure! Why thank you, that makes it so much better, doesn’t it?!”

Paul rubbed his forehead, not knowing how to fix it, how to make up for it… When he looked up, John was staring at him with so much pain in his eyes Paul could barely stand it.

“Just. _Why_ did you do it? Why do you keep lying to me again, and again, and again?” John asked, his voice nearly breaking under the emotion.

A silence followed his words, during which Paul struggled to find words. John was actually staring at him as if – as if he did hope there was a reason, and Paul wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

“I thought… I wanted to—I wanted to fix it,” He tried to explain. “I didn’t want to worry you, I thought. It’s my fault, all of it, it’s all happening because of me and I didn’t want to put that on you, and… I’m sorry, I know it was stupid, I’m so sorry. I… I just wanted to fix it.”

“But I could have fucking helped you!” John roared, his anger flaring back up again. “I could have—we’re supposed to be, fuck I’m not your child! I’m supposed to be your fucking boyfriend, your. I’m supposed to be your partner, and I was more of a partner to you when we were just friends! Do you even realize that?! What would I have done if one day I had woken up and you were just—not there, anymore?! Just… Fuck you! You should have told me!”

“I know, I know, I can’t— I was a git, alright?! I’m sorry, I didn’t want to hurt you, I’ve never wanted to hurt you!”

“Well you did! Repeatedly!”

Paul felt hot tears pricking at his eyes, his breathing so wild it was a miracle he was not having some sort of heart attack. He had gnawed on his lip so much he could feel it bleeding but he could not detach his eyes from John’s face. John’s face, his _love_’s face.

“I’m sorry!” He cried out, and the hint of desperation in his voice made John clasp his mouth shut, probably in surprise. 

His speech was interrupted by his own emotion and his attempt to not start bawling his eyes out. But he pushed through. He needed to say this.

“I know it’s not… I… I love you, John. I love you so much, I. I think about you _all the time_. I swear, it’s a fucking joke how much I think about you. When I’m not with you I just keep wondering. Just what you’re doing, and what you’re thinking, and if you’re happy, and safe, and. I worry about you all the time. I’m just. I’m so scared. I’m so scared of losing you that— God.”

He stopped talking, the tears finally getting the better of him. He pushed his hand hard on his eyes, willing them not to betray him. They were not falling, but they were burning his eyes and making his head pound. Shame, love and fear were blazing inside him, setting his skin on fire. After a minute, or maybe an hour, John’s hoarse voice rose again.

“Paul, I…”

Paul’s head snapped up to look at him. There was a storm on his face: anger, vulnerability, hurt were fighting mercilessly. But also, under all of it, devotion. He was looking at Paul with such intensity that Paul felt like he was craving a hole in his soul.

“I know it’s. I know it’s hard for you too,” He said, visibly straining to get every word out. “I know there’s this whole… life, of you that I’ll. I’ll just never know about.” 

He helplessly shrugged, tears glinting in his eyes too now, and Paul was truly heartbroken.

“But… but it’s okay,” John went out with difficulty. “I know it’s a part of you, and I love that about you too. But you can’t… You can’t. You can’t push me out like that. You can’t live in the future, the past, whatever. You’re _here_. With me. Even… even if it’s just for two weeks, or I don’t know how long. And you haven’t been with me for a very long time. I mean, think less about me if you need to, but…”

He stopped, swallowed harshly. 

“I need you to be here,” He finally whispered.

Unable to stop himself, Paul rushed to him and took him in his arms. John didn’t push him off. His whole body was trembling – or maybe it was Paul’s.

“I’m so sorry,” He whispered in John’s hair, getting it all wet already. “God I’m so sorry. I’m here. I’m here I promise. I want to be with you, I. I’m sorry, I promise…”

“You need to let go of it, mate,” John mumbled against his neck, his arms flimsily encircling Paul, and Paul nearly wanted to laugh at his bravado because he _saw_ it – he saw him.

“I will. I have, I am letting go of it, I swear. I’m with you.”

They remained in a tight embrace, both snotty and shaking and trying not to cry but failing miserably. If Paul could have seen himself from a distance, he wouldn’t have recognized them.

“I could have met my first wife the other night, but I didn’t,” He softly said against John’s hair, his skin. “I didn’t, you know. I chose you. _You_, John.”

John froze in his arms. After a few dreadful seconds, he softly got out of Paul’s embrace and studied his face with a painfully blank look. Where Paul had expected to see relief, he could only see shoulders growing tense and a cold glint in his eyes, hardening by the second. 

“What do you mean?” John asked flatly.

“When you were at my house the other night, after the party, there was also this Georgie Fame concert, you know? That’s where I had met my wife the first time – the one with who… the mother of most of my children. I could ha— I didn’t go. I didn’t. I stayed with you instead.”

Paul stared at John, urging him to understand, to see it, but it was as if the invisible wall between them was turning into bricks under his very eyes, and nothing made sense at all. He could receive _nothing_ from the other man, until John took a horrible step back. Paul’s stomach clenched. Why… why was this going so wrong…?!

“Why didn’t you go?” John finally asked, his eyebrows frowning the tiniest bit.

Paul gaped for a second, a bit taken aback. 

“Well, I… because of you. I don’t want to go back with her. Or just, I mean, you know. Get with her at all, now.” 

“Don’t you miss her?” John probed, his voice still frustratingly impassive.

Paul swallowed, a siren in his mind telling him this was a trick question. Then, in a flash, he wondered when he had become so paranoid with John. 

“I do, yeah,” He admitted, opting for the truth even if it poked into something ugly and still painful in him. “Sometimes, of course. She died when we were still married. But she’s not… It’s you I want.” 

Then, as John was still blankly staring at him, an awkward chuckle escaped his mouth without him being able to control it. Feeling silly, he added: 

“Because right now I’m in love with _you_.”

At those last words, a harsh and heartbreakingly sad laugh came out of John. Paul froze, watching his boyfriend look up at the ceiling and shake his head at it, as if the conversation was over. As if talking to Paul, with Paul, did not matter anymore. Bile rose up in Paul’s mouth, the cold sweat covering all of his skin now, and he tried his hardest not to let it show. He felt like he was completely losing control over the situation, as if he was spiralling far away from John with every passing second, the tip of his fingers desperately trying to hold on to him. 

Finally, John turned his head back to Paul and looked at him with a mixture of concealed anger and utter desolation on his face. The look alone made Paul want to throw up.

“You’re not in love with me, Paul,” He affirmed, frighteningly decisive. 

Paul frowned, a disbelieving chuckle tugging at the corner of his lips.

“What…? Of course I am. I’m telling you I am. Why don’t y—”

“Because if you really were you wouldn’t be so fucking afraid of falling for your wife again the second you see her,” John spat, his eyes harder than ever.

The words violently hit Paul.  
He remained stunned in front of John, not knowing how to react, what to say. How to _feel_.  
...How to deny it.

“John. John, love, no, that’s not—”

“I think you should leave.”

Paul’s head started turning and his legs wobbled.

“What…?”

“You should leave,” John repeated, the tremor in his voice revealing the emotion that his face was trying to hide. “I… can’t.”

The meaning behind his words was materializing in Paul’s mind like poison.

“You don’t… No. No, you can’t…”

“I don’t want to. Not anymore,” John asserted. 

Paul’s entire body turned to lead, something acid and violent dropping in his stomach.

“John…”

“Leave,” John cut him off, his voice stronger but still shaking. “Just, leave. Now.”

He was avoiding his eyes completely, his trembling hands tucked under his armpits.  
So, his limbs both heavy as lead and completely numb, Paul obeyed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> REMEMBER #angstwithahappyending  
... please don't hate me? pretty please? *goes to hide under the sheets*


	52. Chapter 52

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK Y--

It all happened as in a dream. 

His legs were moving, and his lungs were breathing, he knew that, but when he found himself sitting in his car, Martha licking his hand happily, Paul felt like he was stuck in a tiny square in his own head, and his body was working on autopilot.

He had been sitting in silence in his car for hours maybe, lost in white noise and numb limbs, when a whine from Martha and the soft ‘tap-tap’ of the rain that was starting again on the roof of his car pulled him slightly out of his daze. There was light coming from a nearby lamppost. Unable to look at the brick wall just a few meters from him, he rubbed his face, shook his sleeping legs, turned on the lights and started the car. He nearly got lost twice as he got home, the traffic seeming surrealist to him – just as everything else. Even looking at his own hands felt weird, and he was not quite capable of doing it without feeling sick. 

He finally arrived home, and if it wasn’t for Martha’s and Thisbe’s calls for his attention, he would probably have just remained standing in his hallway for the whole night, staring in the void. He called Cynthia without thinking about it; told her John was at his other house, that he would be fine. Cynthia was worried, wanted to know more, but Paul was not capable to keep talking and just excused himself before he hung up. The conversation he had just lived at John’s house kept replaying in his head, over and over again. He felt like he had been split in two: one part of him cruelly understood what had happened, and the other could simply not process the words. The meaning of it all. His guts were torn apart, bile leaving him on the verge of throwing up any minute. As he mechanically undressed and went to bed in default of knowing what else to do, he was assaulted by tiny, repetitive flashbacks during which he was back in the house, listening to John expose how much of a fraud he was all over again. 

And the worst thing was, John was right. About _everything_.

Paul didn’t know if it was stupidity, ego or ignorance, but he was seeing now just how truly blind he had been. All along he had told himself that he was keeping everything to himself to protect John, to keep him out of trouble, but now he was realizing that that was not even the truth. If he had to be totally honest to himself, he had to acknowledge that it was not really John he had protected, but himself. Not telling John had been the easy way out; instead of talking things through and of admitting that they were real, that they were happening, he had chosen to bury his head in the sand and pretend everything would magically work out on its own. He had ignored the fact that John having an opinion on what was happening was legitimate because it was easier to pretend it wasn’t. And as a result he was ashamed, and guilty, and furious at himself. He had played the most important thing in his life on a ridiculous gamble and now it truly felt like he had lost everything. 

He couldn’t stop picturing John’s hurt face, the pain behind his eyes, the inescapable distance between them that had grown longer and longer the more Paul tried to justify himself. John’s last statement especially resonated like the words of doom in his head. His first instinct was to deny it – of course he was in love with John. He was, he knew it; he knew himself enough to have absolutely zero doubt about it. But Linda… Linda had been his first true love, one that had been brutally cut off, and some part of him was still in love with her. He guessed it was normal, natural, but he had never stopped to think what it could mean to John. Of course Paul did not want to marry Linda the ‘second’ he would see her again. If he saw her again, he would not ‘re-meet’ her; he knew her already, better than he had known most people in his life. He would feel just as many real, current emotions as he had when he had seen his dad for the first time when he had arrived, more than a year ago now. But she did not know him. He was a total stranger to her, and he was not interested in becoming more than that again. As he reflected about it, he realized that was what he would have told John if he had had the strength and the wit to defend himself on the spot. Because it was true: he still loved Linda, but that love was consummated, secured in a melancholy drawer of his heart that was not meant to be opened again. It was like the love of a memory; it stayed with him, it was strong and he cherished it, but he could not live it again. And he knew now with absolute certainty that he did not want to.

But he had not had time to tell John that. He had not even really known it until the moment John brought the topic up. Based on his previous terror of John falling in love with Yoko, he had just automatically followed the same train of thought and had looked at his feelings from a conscious, rational perspective which, in the end, made no sense at all. His feelings were not pieces of data randomly thrown into a computer program. Seeing Linda again did not mean his past love for her would be turned into reality again, just as John meeting Yoko in this life did not mean he would automatically fall in love with her again. He was in love with John. And John had already been in love with him when he had met Yoko. The threat on their relationship had never been real. But John had seen him panic about Yoko; he had seen him follow that twisted robotic logic and assert it as if it was the true behaviour of his feelings. For John to assume Paul did not want to meet Linda _because_ he thought he would fall back in love with her straight away was logic. It was clever, even. It was based on the evidence Paul had given him during their time together. But it was also totally fucking stupid. 

Feelings were not logic; feelings were chaotic, and messy, and complicated. They were not based on facts but on soul, and Paul’s soul wholly belonged to John. 

Time passed and Paul remained lying on his bed, vaguely aware of the presence of his pets in the room. He had come to understand quickly that he would not fall asleep that night. All in all, he could not quite pinpoint when _he_, a rational, intelligent grown man, had stopped considering the man he was crazy in love with as a rational, intelligent grown man too. Anger was not enough of a word to describe what he felt towards himself at this point. 

It had to be around five in the morning when he got up with robotic movements and calmly went to the bathroom. He opened the cabinet and stared at the pill bottle waiting on the shelf. He stared and stared, and after a moment he took it in his hand and weighed it. There weren’t many left. Maybe if he took two at once he would be sure to fall asleep…

But suddenly vivid images appeared to him, clear as if it had happened the day before. Brian’s worried face when he had woken up at the hospital. Ringo and George’s relieved hug. John’s shaking in his arms. No. He could not keep making the same mistakes again. So, with his spirits even lower, he put the bottle back on the shelf and slowly padded back to bed and let himself fall face first. Martha jumped on the bed and snuggled next to him with a whine, but he couldn’t even bring himself to pet her. Some desperate voice in his head was telling him to just call John, but another, calmer one figured that would not help much at the time. Especially since John was probably not sober yet. 

When eventually sleep came, the sun was already poking outside and Paul welcomed the darkness with open arms and a broken heart. 

The next day (or rather, three hours later), Paul woke up with a raging headache and a bitter taste in his mouth. He watched out of his window with bleary eyes and was almost mad at the sun for shining so brightly and cheerfully, the bastard. His first thought was of course focused on John, with the usual ‘how’s my love doing’ that had followed every morning for months now, but he quickly chased it away and got up briskly. Lamenting over himself was no solution. If he had learnt anything in his life, it was that when your head and your heart were aching, music was the best way to soothe them. So he did what he knew best: he played music and poured everything he had into it. He was still miserable, and mad at himself and at the world (but not at John, he soon found out – never at John), but he was doing what he had been born to do. As long as he had that, he knew he would be able to work things out. 

As the day progressed, another realization came to him. Ever since he had got with John, he had sort of shut away every other emotional attachment around him. He had spent time with his family and his friends, of course, and had tried to do it even more knowing he might be gone soon, but even when he had been with them, all he had done really was think about John. He had not supported Ringo as much as he had promised he would (hell, he had not even asked how things were going with Maureen), he had not written with George in months. He had talked a lot with Brian, but they had been particularly stressful conversations – not exactly the idea he had at the beginning of the ‘making sure Brian won’t kill himself out of stress’ plan. When he looked back at his previous relationships, even the strongest ones, he noticed that he had never behaved that way. And really, it couldn’t be healthy, could it? His fear had taken so much space into his mind that it had basically overtaken the room left by his love for his friend. John was right. Paul had spent so much time thinking about him that he had stopped being with him.

Hours passed nevertheless. The phone had rung at some point, but it had not even crossed Paul’s mind to pick it up. He couldn’t be bothered. Time finally arrived to prepare for the Sergeant Pepper’s album party and it was with his heart ten feet underground that he dressed himself. He even shaved himself, the moustache being now more than ever a reminder of his failed relationship. He had rarely been less inclined to preen, but he was a professional still and did not want to ruin the band over his shattered heart. Who knew what consequences that could have. 

Hence it was with the face of a dead man and the motivation of an oyster that Paul arrived at Brian’s house, the reception of the party. He was almost late, which he hated, and most of the guests were already there, which he hated too. He wriggled through the couple of people in the entry hall, looking for a familiar face, until he finally spotted Mal hovering over everyone. Feeling a bit relieved to find him first (and not, let’s say, some redhead), Paul went straight in his direction, only stopping for the mandatory smile and hello on the way. When he finally reached him, he discovered his friend and colleague talking with Alistair Taylor near the buffet. They welcomed him with enthusiastic smiles which Paul struggled to reciprocate.

“Hey Paul! Found your way through the journalists, then,” Mal said with a gentle expression.

“Nearly had to elbow a couple, I’ll admit,” Paul replied easily.

“Have you seen John?” Alistair asked.

Paul turned to him with a raised eyebrow, trying to control his startled heart. _Of course_ someone would mention John the second he arrived. 

“Hum, no, no I haven’t. Just arrived, really.”

“Oh. I thought you might have seen him outside. He hasn’t arrived yet. Brian is losing his mind,” Alistair confided. 

Paul bit on his lip, feeling uneasy and picked up a glass of champagne as soon as he could. He could only hope their breakup would not affect the night. Seeing all the work people gathered in the room around him, it suddenly struck him just how much trouble he was in. John was his _bandmate_. His writing partner. And things were definitely not going to be smooth between them for a good, probably very long while…

As he tried to scan the room to see if he could find John, George or Ringo, his gaze suddenly caught on long blond hair and he froze. No. No no no no…

How could he have fucking forgotten that _Linda would be there too_?!

All at once, his breath got stuck in his throat and a mix of emotions overwhelmed him. Expectancy, nervousness, joy and fear bounced around in his head and in his veins, making his hands go numb and his lips go dry. Linda was talking to some journalist on the other side of the room and their eyes had not crossed yet. What was he supposed to do? He wanted to talk to her, of course he did, but he feared that if John arrived and saw him talking with her he might understand who she was. But then again, even if he did, would it be bad? After all, John’s feelings about the subject had not been what Paul had expected at all in the first place. _You’re allowed to be happy to see your beloved dead wife_, he told himself, trying to really integrate the words. He felt like a deer frozen in headlights, with no actual good choice available. And yet, he was to be forced to have one since Linda would probably _take pictures of them_ this time too.

Since panic was not a viable option, Paul chose to stay cool and face things as they came. He stayed in his corner with Mal and Alistair and soon enough they were joined by Ringo and Maureen, then George and Pattie, and then it was time for speeches and toasts with the journalists and the photographers and John was still not in sight and Paul was worried.

Brian was hanging on his rotary phone, trying to call the Lennon household for the tenth time when finally a nasal voice floated to Paul’s ears and he could breathe a little better. He was calculating which attitude would be best to adopt when Ringo took him aside and whispered to him:

“Are you alright?” 

Paul startled a bit, going straight to the defensive. Could Ringo somehow know about the breakup already?

“Of course. Why? Why wouldn’t I be?” He answered a bit too fast.

Ringo looked at him with a frown. 

“Well. I mean, Linda is here…” 

Paul’s mouth formed a ‘o’. 

“Oh. Oh, yeah. I’m...” He paused, and realized he had literally no reason to lie. “It’s a bit weird.”

“I imagine,” Ringo lightly chuckled with a sympathetic smile.

Paul smiled tightly at him, expecting an uncomfortable conversation, but Ringo simply patted him in the back. Besides them, George said something and Paul turned to the noise and suddenly John was _right there_. He was saying hi to the little group, and his face was pale and his eyes circled but he was cleanly shaved and he was smiling. Even tired as he looked, he was so bloody gorgeous he was practically glowing, and Paul loved him and wanted him so much his stomach twisted painfully. He could not have looked away if he tried. John was saluting everybody, and his gaze turned to Paul and Paul was certain he was going to ignore him when—

“Hello, Macca.”

John’s voice was weird, stilted, but also so _impossibly_ soft Paul doubted anyone but him could have actually heard it. Cynthia was not with him, and a small part of him worried about it, but his heart and mind were too overwhelmed by the fact that he was in John’s presence again to really worry about it. When their eyes met, time seemed to freeze for a second. Paul was struck by how _sad_ John’s were but in a flash his ex-lover had turned his face away and someone else was talking and they were ushered outside. There were voices – including Paul’s – floating around but it was as if his consciousness had left his body and was observing the situation from somewhere behind him. Observing him meet all these people he had met before, pose for all these pictures he had posed for before. Outside, on the porch, in places Paul didn’t remember and in others he could have painted with his eyes closed. And then, Linda was in front of them: radiant, with a smile more powerful than the sun and eyes deeper than his memory remembered. She was taking pictures of them, just a few feet from them, and hearing her voice was so alien and so unnatural that Paul just felt an incontrollable need to giggle. He restrained himself and just smiled, but then someone asked them to swap places and George left his side to be replaced by John and if Paul was overwhelmed before, it was nothing compared to the feeling of John’s heat right next to him. To hearing his laboured breathing that meant he was stressed, to smelling his coconut shampoo and to being crushed by the desire to take him in his arms and never let him go. When they moved on the couch, John’s fingers brushed his and Paul could swear John had twitched. Ignoring the fact that there were literally people taking pictures of them, Paul just moved his hand the tiniest bit and when he finally touched John’s skin, and by some miracle John did not remove his hand right away, he lingered there for as long as he could. Then John shuffled on his seat, and the heat of his fingers was gone and Paul felt cold.

Linda, his first wife, in the flesh and young and alive was _right there_ in front of him, smiling at him, and yet Paul was only aching for his fingers to touch the smallest bit of John’s skin he could get away with. John was being loud, snappier than usual, and belligerent: Paul knew this wasn’t good for them, wasn’t great for the image of the band, but all he felt was the pain of knowing this behaviour proved how hurt John really was. When the fact that they had broken up because John was convinced Paul was not in love with him came back to him, laughter bubbled out of him. George and Ringo turned surprised faces at him but still giggled along, and even though Paul could feel John’s gaze on him, he could not look at him. He could not look at him because if he did, he _knew_ he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from kissing him and Linda was right there and everyone was staring at them and this was just so _ridiculous_…

But somehow time kept passing by and in a flash John was gone somewhere outside and Paul was left to his own devices again. As he stood in Brian’s living-room, reliving practically minute by minute one of his clearer memories (he could practically recite the conversation Linda and he had had that first time), Paul realized with a start that this was all very real. Blood rushed to his head and his vision cleared as he looked at the twenty or so people around him. John was nowhere in sight. 

He walked to get a new toast of caviar and noticed Linda, at the other end of the table, taking another toast too. She was really here. Alive, and well, with a whole life in front of her. It was so weird to watch her move around, eating her toast and discreetly wiping her fingers off on her own wrist. A big part of him wanted to go to her and talk to her about something pointless and anachronist like what to cook for the kids for Christmas or if she had remembered to water the gardenias before going to bed. It was like instinct, like closing his eyes to get into water. And yet another, a newer part of him just wanted to watch her from a distance, to enjoy the fact that she was just here and well and that she was going to live and be happy for decades and decades. 

Shooing his fears and melancholy away, he took another good gulp of champagne and walked vividly to her. 

“Good evening,” He exclaimed as casually as he could.

Linda looked up at him and drew an amused smile. Her eyes were tender and sparkling with laughter and she was even more beautiful than Paul remembered.

“It’s barely five pm,” She noted wittily with a raised eyebrow.

Paul chuckled and his whole body warmed and relaxed at once. It was so her, and so familiar. Images of her last years, her last months spent crushed by the disease came back to him, but they were almost blurry compared to the brightness of her smile. It was as if his mind was urging him to only remember the good moments, the love and happiness they had shared. He suddenly missed his family deeper than he had since he had arrived. They had had a whole life together, and she would never know any of it. It was so wild he had trouble wrapping his head around it. Nevertheless, his smile grew bigger.

“How are you doing?” He asked. 

“Hum, I’m doing good,” Linda assured with a slow nod and a brief chuckle. “You have a very nice tie.”

“Thank you. My dog picked it out for me.”

“Sounds like a smart dog.”

“She has very classy tastes, you know.”

They both chuckled. It was both very familiar and incredibly foreign, to have such inconsequential chitchat with her. As if his body was screaming at him how unnatural this all was, and his consciousness was struggling to catch up with everything. He took a breath, trying to find what to say. There were thousands of things he wanted to tell Linda, but most of them would make absolutely no sense to her. So they went to sit in a corner and started chatting aimlessly for a while, about everything and anything – the smallest things being the best. It was easy, and reassuring, and like a gift from the universe that he knew he was going to cherish until the end of his life (however long it was going to be). As they talked, he slowly realized that all he really wanted was to be friends with her again. In truth, that was what he missed most: he missed his friend. He had missed his friend for more than twenty years now. His heart may have been taken ever since her passing, but her friendship had left a sore whole in his life. He wanted her to be okay, and to know what she was worth. That that was all that really mattered in the end.

“I, um… Okay, it might sound weird,” He started with a self-deprecating chuckle. “Definitely. But… you look like, you’re a good. A good bean. You know? And I just. I think… just, you look like you deserve the best things in the world. And I want you to know that.”

Linda started laughing, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. 

“Okay. Thank you?” She answered with a funny face.

“This is very weird, isn’t it.”

“It is,” Linda confirmed, laughing again. “It is very weird, but I also appreciate it. It’s kind of you to say. You look like you deserve good things too.”

“Oh I’m… yeah. Yeah, I’ve been lucky with that. I think.”

As he said the words, he realized just how true they actually were. He was lucky. He was reliving his younger years, he was given a new chance with his friends and family, and he had fallen in love again; the most beautiful blessing during one of the most hopeless periods he had ever lived. Linda was looking at him with a curious, interested look. She took another sip of champagne, and it looked like she was carefully thinking about the best way to form her next sentence. Paul felt his heartrate accelerate in anticipation. It had been a simply friendly chat, but he could see how his eagerness to talk to her could pass for from an external point of view.

“I need to go before my babysitter doubles her price,” Linda said with an amused smile. “But… maybe we’ll see each other around?”

Paul didn’t have to think about his answer. He had known all along what it would be. He had known for months, probably. 

“You’ll definitely be asked to take our pics again. I think, for sure.”

Linda pursed her lips, still smiling. Paul knew her, and he knew she was embarrassed, but she was hiding it pretty well all things considered.

“Maybe. Maybe, yeah,” She finally answered.

Paul nodded. A silent beat passed between them. Linda smiled again, got up and looked like she was about to leave, until she suddenly changed her mind and spoke.

“Can I just say… that was very smooth. Thank you for not, you know. Not being not smooth.”

Paul chuckled, a tad embarrassed himself.

“Well… you are a lovely, beautiful woman,” He confessed. “But I’m not available.”

Linda observed his face for a moment, and her smile turned tenderer.

“Lucky person,” She noted.

Paul found himself shaking his head without even thinking. 

“No. No, really. I’m the lucky one.”

Linda’s smile grew, and Paul had missed it so much he could not help but to mirror it.

“I’m gonna go. Thank you for the chat, it was really nice meeting you.”

“It was really nice meeting you too,” Paul gushed immediately.

“Take good care of your person,” Linda winked. 

Paul nodded with a chuckle and watched her go, her blond hair sinuating among the few meaningless bodies of the other photographers and journalists until it had completely disappeared from view.

As he picked up his glass of champagne, a sort of soothing, quiet peace came upon him. The desire to just tell all about his conversation with Linda to John suddenly flowed in his mind. He wanted to share his happiness of seeing her again, and how much he had missed her and her friendship. But then he was immediately remembered that he couldn’t anymore, and a slow sadness crept in him again. He looked around the room. Brian was chatting with two journalists, Ringo was laughing and drinking with Mal. Pattie and Maureen were together on the couch, but there was no sign of either John or George, and Paul felt a pang in his chest. He missed John, terribly.

“Alright, can you go tell your husband to calm down? Because he’s being a knobhead and I’m pretty sure he’s insulted three photographers already.”

Paul turned around. George dropped into the seat Linda had just left. He strongly smelled of ash and weed, but also of the pine trees that were in Brian’s garden. 

“Yeah well, we just broke up so I’m not sure I’m the right person for the job,” Paul snorted in his glass.

He didn’t know if it was the right moment to bring up the topic, but the words had come out so naturally Paul did not really care. Next to him, George froze.

“What?”

Paul offered him a tight, joyless smile.

“What happened?”

“We fought,” He shrugged. “And he dumped me.”

He focused on his drink, not wanting to see pity on George’s face.

“What the fuck?! When was that?”

Paul shrugged, keeping his gaze back on his beer.

“Last night.”

“Did you talk to him since?” George quietly asked after a moment of silence.

Paul snorted again and looked at him briefly.

“I’m not that suicidal.”

George kept silent for a while, just observing Paul drinking.

“I think you should.”

“He won’t talk to me, George.”

“He loves you.”

Paul sighed.

“Yeah yeah yeah,” he murmured, staring at the bottom of his glass.

“Shut up, Paul, I’m serious.” George huffed, annoyed. “Look, John might sometimes be a bastard and a pain in the arse, but he is brilliant. He’s a good lad. And he seriously loves you. It couldn’t be more obvious. Anyone could see that. Even Gracie can see it.” 

“Well, I can’t right now.”

George leant back, pursing his lips.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Thank you. That’s very comforting,” Paul snorted.

“I’m not trying to comfort you, you git. I just want you to open your fucking eyes. Go talk to John.”

Paul gave him big eyes and sighed deeply.

“I don’t even know what to say. He just… he made pretty good points, if I have to be… completely honest. About it.”

George stared at him as if he was being particularly stupid. He gaped for a moment, shaking his head to himself.

“You’re so fucking stupid,” He finally said. “Just go tell him that.”

“He’s just mad at me, okay? Like, really mad. And he’s right to be. Saying sorry for the hundredth time is not gonna change that. I’d rather just… give him space. Even if just to sober up.”

“I haven’t seen him drink that much, I think he’s alright.”

Paul didn’t answer, just grimaced noncommittally and took another sip. The image of a crying John telling him to leave his house came back to him and he wanted to sink into the ground a little. He knew George was observing him, until suddenly his friend gasped.

“Wait, you mean he was _drunk_?!” He exclaimed in an uncharacteristically high-pitched voice. “He broke up with you when he was drunk—”

“Well, he—”

“—and you _let him_?!”

Paul looked at him and sighed forcibly. He was getting a bit annoyed, and he did not want to see the nice feeling of seeing Linda abandon him so soon. But George kept staring at him with a frown. He did not look like he was ready to let go of it.

“Are you even sure it was not actually just, like, a regular fight?”

“Jesus, Geo! There was nothing _regular_ about it. He kicked me out, said he didn’t want to do it anymore. I mean, that’s pretty fucking clear.”

George stayed silent for a while, although he was still frowning.

“Can’t you just like, have some angry fuck and sort it out?”

“I don’t even know why I’m still talking to you,” Paul replied on a level tone without looking at him.

“I don’t understand you. Why are you so defeatist? What actually happened?”

Paul looked up at him and reflected on it. His first instinct was to keep everything to himself but—why? Why would he do that, the same mistake, again and again and again? George was here, he trusted him. He was _here_. So, taking a big breath in, Paul said:

“Let’s go find a quiet corner.”

George nodded, looking a little worried now, and they ventured outside. It was already dark, and a bit chilly. In the corner of his eyes Paul thought he spotted John’s figure talking with a couple of people on the terrace near the pool and his heart ached, but they kept walking around the house until they found a secluded spot behind it near the garage. There wasn’t any spots there, and there barely was light coming from the windows and the moon to accompany them, but Paul found it was better that way. He did not particularly want George to see his face as he told his story. 

They sat on a cracked low wall and he told him everything. 

The fights, the lies, Tara’s repeated fate, Briony’s story. Yoko. Linda. John’s death. He talked and talked, and yet it felt like seconds had passed when he finally stopped and his throat was dryer than sand. George was the best listener he could have hoped for, only interrupting him to get a clearer understanding once in a while. It had required him a moment to get over the shock of John’s untimely demise, which Paul understood more than well. Paul did not manage to utter the word ‘love’ – he was not sure he would ever be able to pronounce that word in front of George – but when he stopped talking, he felt like he had revealed more about himself in half an hour than he had in the last year. George stayed silent for a while, quietly observing what he could see of Paul, but weirdly Paul did not feel judged at all. If he was honest to himself, he even felt a bit relieved. 

“You have been a true, honest to god tosser,” George finally said with a soft voice.

Paul looked at the moon and breathed deeply. He then shook his head.

“I know.”

“John’s not being very fair either, though,” George went on, his shoulder bumping gently into Paul’s. “You have a lot on your plate. It’s tough having to deal with everything knowing what you know.”

“I don’t know. Look at Ringo, he’s in the same situation but he’s like. A Buddhist master about it all.”

George chuckled and Paul laid his chin on his crossed arms, resting on his knees.

“It’s not really the same, though,” George said. “He was not alone for a year, he had you straight away. Plus Maureen is not going to get murdered. I mean, she isn’t, right?!”

“No, no, she isn’t,” Paul chuckled sadly. “But he cares about John too. John is not mine only.”

George hummed and shuffled a bit on his makeshift seat, and spread his bony legs in front of him, his feet making the gravel screech. When he spoke next, he was looking at his stretching feet.

“I don’t know if you want my advice, but it’s still the same as earlier. You should talk to him. Tell him everything you’ve just told me. Maybe if he understands how your paranoia works he’ll forgive you and you’ll be back to screwing each other’s brains out in no time.”

Paul didn’t answer, quietly contemplating it. At this point, he was not even sure he deserved to be forgiven, and that realization was like a punch in the guts. George’s level voice rose again.

“And maybe you should just, you know. Maybe chill out a bit.”

At that Paul heartily laughed, the sound racking through his whole body. He turned his head to George and his friend was grinning at him.

“Seriously, though,” He went on. “Like, John is right. You’re here, with us. You get to live twice. It’d be a shame to ruin it by anticipating everyone’s deaths, wouldn’t it?”

“I might go back soon,” Paul replied. “You know. I might go back tonight even, who knows.”

“All the more reasons to go talk to him right now.”

They shared an intense look, George lowering his head and raising his eyebrows at him, until Paul gave in and sighed.

“Alright, alright. I’m going.”

Paul raised his head and pushed on his knees to get up.

“Good,” George said, getting up too. “Just don’t start fucking in Brian’s house.”

“Fuck off,” Paul chuckled with a frown.

But George merely grinned. They walked together back towards the house, its lights and the voices it carried out. Paul looked at the terrace, but there wasn’t anyone anymore. He turned his gaze towards the glass doors of the living-room until George elbowed him. He turned to him and George pointed his chin at a lonely silhouette sitting at the other end of the pool, feet into the water and half into the darkness. Paul’s heart clenched at the sight. George clapped his shoulder briefly and Paul gave him a warm smile.

“Thank you.”

“Just go,” George nodded, before going straight into the house.

Paul watched him go, then turned to the pool. His body and heart feeling heavier with each step, he walked closer and closer until he was at the end of the pool too. John did not look up at him, but he did not leave either; he was smoking a cigarette, his eyes unfocused. Paul hesitated, then stepped a bit closer. Scared that the other man would bolt away any second, he squatted slowly, took off his shoes and socks and sat on the edge of the pool too. The water was cold and made him shiver all over, but he still pushed his feet all the way into it. The meter between John and him felt like kilometres. When he was sure John would not say anything or ask him to fuck off, he thought about the best way to start talking.

“The blond photographer who was here earlier, the woman,” He said in an almost whisper. “She… that was Linda.”

John’s hand that was holding the cigarette stilled but he did not turn his head, and Paul kept his gaze on the water too.

“Why the fuck are you telling m—” John started angrily, then just cut himself off. He turned his head, put off his cigarette on the stony floor surrounding the pool, then looked up at the sky with a sigh so loud it made Paul tremble too. “Fuck. I fucking knew it.”

Paul turned his head towards him, and the way John was squaring his jaw and biting on his lower lip revived the pain in his stomach again. He knew the other man was stopping himself from crying.

“I’m telling you this because you’re right, I do love her. I always will. We talked for a while and I had missed her a lot, but I won’t date her. I just don’t want to. I won’t fall back in love with her. I could see her tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that, you know, and I will still love her. But I will still love you more. Because it’s you I want.”

He stopped, tucked his trembling hands under his thighs. He didn’t even notice the temperature of the water anymore. Next to him, John had started shaking a bit too, but he still wasn’t looking at him, his eyes stubbornly stuck on the sky above them. So Paul took the chance to add, in a whisper:

“It will always be you.”

At that John turned his head towards him, and his expression slapped Paul in the face. He looked hurt, and disbelieving, upset. But mostly, so incredibly _tired_. His eyes were shining, but there was no hatred in them and that was better than what Paul thought he actually deserved, but it was also so much disheartening. He had expected cursing, shouting, endless fighting – not the quiet, slumped and defeated shell sitting next to him. He took another big breath, and tried to keep his voice level as he talked.

“I was wrong. I, I was wrong about pretty much… all the choices I have made these last few months. You’re right. I let my paranoia take over and I hurt you and I’m infinitely sorry for that. I have hundreds of excuses but none of them are good, because… Just, lying to you has been the worst decision I have ever made. I thought I was doing the right thing, and I simply let myself forget that you were entitled to. To have an opinion, too. That your opinion was what mattered the most. And that is unforgivable.”

He paused and looked away, trying to calm himself a bit. John’s exhausted gaze on him was too much.

“I don’t think you should forgive me.” He added quietly. Then, with a wet chuckle he couldn’t stop, he added: “But the selfish part of me really, really hopes you will because… I just can’t imagine living my life without you in it. However long I stay here.”

He looked at John again, but the other man had diverted his gaze. Somehow, he looked even more slumped now. After a long moment, he finally spoke with a hoarse, very quiet voice.

“I’ll still be in it. The band is still here.”

He chuckled sadly to himself.

“I think that even if I didn’t want to be your friend Brian would force me to.”

“I don’t want to be your friend,” Paul replied quickly, feeling himself get choked up.

John turned his head to him again and observed his face. Somehow, his eyes looked even sadder than before. 

“I know,” He whispered.

They stayed like that for a while, just looking at each other. There wasn’t much noise coming from the house anymore, and it was nearly completely dark, but Paul couldn’t care less. The moment felt fragile, and he was scared it would be the last. The thought came to him suddenly, crushing him. There was nothing he wouldn’t do if it meant he could stay right here, sitting next to John. Even if just for a while longer.

But after a moment John slowly got up, his dripping feet creating tiny puddles around him. Feeling frozen, Paul looked up at him. He didn’t have to hear John’s words to know what he was going to say. 

“You can… you can do it. Live without me,” He told Paul – and he sounded so sad and so tired Paul wanted to cry again. “You’ve done it before.”

Then, he walked away. 

The days kept happening, one after the other, and Paul was struggling to find his bearings back. John had taken such a huge place in his life that going back to a Johnless existence was almost harder than adapting to living in the past. He was miserable, and it seemed like nothing could lighten the sorrow that accompanied his every thought. Since he didn’t have to go back to the studio for a while, he quickly left and spent a few days with his dad, then his brother, and did his best to devote himself fully to them. It worked, to some extent. Each time his mind was spiralling again into fear and the apprehension of disappearing from one instant to the next, he closed his eyes, breathed deeply and pictured John’s face. Even if thinking about him was painful, it helped each time.

When he finally went back to London and to Abbey Road, he was stressed. He knew music would do him good, but he also didn’t want the awkwardness, didn’t want to see John right there in front of him and not be able to touch him. Or even just to properly talk to him. When John did arrived, he called out a general ‘hi’ and went to his guitar straight away. Paul replied, quietly, and just watched him – he was unable not to, really. John looked drained again, and the circles under his eyes could not be concealed by his glasses. Paul intercepted a concerned glance from George and simply shook his head, discreetly. They started working, and it was helping Paul a little, but John was quiet and a bit grumpy and it was awful. He wondered seriously what all this meant for their writing partnership; he doubted he would ever be able to write love songs with John again. 

“I’m not sure about this,” George stated when they were recording a third take of voices for ‘It’s All Too Much’ (vastly different from the original and still eerily similar to it, to Paul’s never-ceasing wonder). “It was better the first time around, wasn’t it?”

Paul was standing next to George in front of the mic, headphones over his ears. Biting his lip, he just listened to the exchange, figuring George would know better what he wanted on his own song. He had a strong opinion on the matter - mind you - but he was set (however hard it was to remain quiet) not to impose it. Ringo and John were sitting a bit farther away, with Ringo leaning his elbow on the piano next to him and John smoking a cigarette, his legs crossed under him.

“I liked that one,” George Martin assured through the intercom, his voice floating around them. “But we can do it again.”

“I think we should go higher on the chorus.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” John gruffly muttered, though it was loud enough for all of them to hear. “Go any higher and you’ll sound like foghorns.”

“Come on,” Ringo gently nudged him.

“John, please,” George Martin’s voice exhorted.

“Why do you all let him do this bullshit? He sounds like a dying duck. Just put him out of his misery already.”

Paul had not planned to interfere (he didn’t want for John’s mood to explode because of him) but that was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

“Stop being a dick. It’s his song. He sounds great on it,” He pointed out with a firm voice.

John’s darkened eyes zeroed in on him instantly, and his pursed lips and squared jaw screamed what he wasn’t saying. They stared at each other for a moment. Paul could feel John’s anger like the flames of a fire licking at him, until John huffed and got up to leave the room. Paul could feel Ringo’s and George’s eyes on him, but he ignored them. George Martin could still hear everything they were saying. 

They kept recording for a while, and when George was finally satisfied with the voices, the three of them went outside to enjoy some fresh air. It was night already, and Paul had no idea if John was even still in the building, but he was too tired to ask.

“What’s wrong with John? I hadn’t seen you bicker like that in ages,” Ringo asked as he struggled to sit on a window sill.

Paul didn’t answer right away, only letting out a sigh as he looked at the starlit sky above them.

“They divorced,” George supplied with his usual drawl.

Ringo turned his head towards Paul so fast he nearly fell of the window. Paul stretched an arm out to hold him, just in case.

“What?!” Ringo faltered.

“Second time,” Paul feebly joked.

“But… why?” Ringo went on with a sad frown.

“He’s been a knobhead,” George supplied as he was lighting a cigarette.

“Me, not John.”

Ringo’s eyes turned even sadder. 

“I’m sorry.”

Paul sent him a small grateful smile. The three of them fell into a sombre but comfortable silence, George calmly puffing on his cigarette. But Ringo kept glancing at Paul.

“Do you think… hum… like, concerning the band…”

Paul shrugged, raising his eyebrows in another deep sigh.

“I don’t know. We haven’t talked about it. I guess if he shows up and I show up it means we’re still going. I just hope it doesn’t mean we’ll be sent back to the future right away.”

Ringo’s eyes widened a bit and flew to George, who intercepted the look.

“No worries, Paul has told me about your theory,” He reassured him with a vampire grin. “You’re a pretty clever bloke.”

Ringo started laughing, a hand on his chest.

“God, you don’t know how relieved I am to hear that. I couldn’t bear to keep it from you any longer.”

Paul shuffled on his feet and leant against the wall with crossed arms, feeling shame burning his neck and his stomach. Now that he was aware of them, reminders of his bad choices seemed to pop up everywhere.

“Maybe you’ll never leave, if the band actually breaks up again. I mean, we will obviously break up at some point. But like, if we break up soon,” George mused.

“We really need to find the rest of that short story,” Ringo replied, shaking his head. “Not knowing is driving me mad.”

Paul merely hummed. A tiny flicker of hope started blossoming in him: since he hadn’t travelled back the night John had broken up with him, could that mean somehow that they still had a shot at getting back together…? It was a meagre lead, but it didn’t make less sense than everything else. His eyes idly travelled to George again, and to the regular gesture of his fingers as he was tapping ash off from his cig. 

“George,” He said.

“Mmh?”

“Stop smoking.”

George turned dead eyes to him, but Paul didn’t back down. Then George looked at Ringo, who was seemingly wearing the same expression as Paul judging from the younger lad’s dramatic eye roll.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” He muttered under his breath. 

Then he put off his cigarette, making a point of crashing it against the wall.

As days turned into weeks, Paul fought hard not to fall into a true broken-hearted depression. He could manage when he was working or seeing other people, but as soon as he found himself alone, John’s absence was coming to bite at his heart. One day when he was cleaning up his house from top to bottom (in an overly maniacal burst of energy), he stumbled upon one of John’s jumpers, his dark blue one, and remained frozen in place with the jumper in his hands for hours. A small part of him considered giving it back next time he would saw him, but he quickly shut the option away. Then started an awkward, embarrassing ritual: for a while, he could not stop himself from bringing the jumper with him from room to room. He didn’t wear it, but just put it next to him everywhere he went, either on the couch, on the kitchen counter, or on the chairs in the bathroom. He even accidentally brought it at work in his satchel once, and prayed the whole day that no one would catch a glimpse of it whenever he had to open the bag. After a few days he noticed John’s smell was still clinging to it, and that night he remained god knew how long sitting in front of the jumper and talking himself into not becoming the cliché of a lovesick stalker-ish teenager. He lost, of course, and from then on slept every night with the jumper clutched in his arms with his nose tucked in it.

What helped was seeing his therapist. He had started spacing their appointments out a few months earlier, mostly out of laziness and of fear to reveal too much, but now he figured talking things out could only do him good – even if he could obviously not mention John directly, nor the fact that he was a man. But still, trying to put (vague) words on his misery and his guilt helped him a bit to clear his head and allow the paranoia to dwindle away. He was still scared, and devastated, but he was trying to stop being a ‘knobhead’ as George so elegantly put it. It was harder than he thought it was, but he truly hoped it would prove worth it. 

He spent a lot of time with George and his little family, and with Ringo too. In a way, it was as if he was reconnecting with his dear friends, and that did him a lot of good. They were comprehensive and gentle with him (well, George was not always gentle, but always supportive) and yet they didn’t force him into talking about John, which he appreciated greatly. He loved watching Grace grow and discovering who she was; at ten months old, she was already proving to have quite a character, and she looked so much like George it left him feeling odd at times. He took his godfather role very seriously, and was relieved when George told him he was happy to see him develop a real relationship with the little girl. More than everything else, it felt like a sign of confidence that Paul greatly cherished.

When George Martin called him to announce John had finished writing the song for the BBC broadcast and they could book some dates to record it, Paul’s heart clenched. He had no idea what the song would turn out to be this time, and was hurt to learn that John had done it all on his own without talking to him about it. On that first day of recording, he discovered the song along George and Ringo and was gobsmacked to see it actually was ‘All You Need Is Love’ again. How could John be inspired to write the exact same song in such a different context from Paul’s and Ringo’s past? As he read the lyrics a bit more carefully, he realized however there was one difference: instead of ‘it’s easy’ at the end of the verses, John had chosen ‘should be easy’. It wasn’t the tiniest change, and it shouldn’t have made him pause at all, but for some reason the new words left him feeling even more dispirited. 

Thus, the next day, Paul was so depressed that it took a phone call early in the morning to remind him that it was his birthday. It was already his second birthday in the past, but it didn’t mean anything to him: he wasn’t 79 anymore (and even less since there had been a floating four-month period between the date of his departure and the one of his arrival in the past) but he couldn’t be 25 again either. He was stuck in a weird ageless vacuum, the only proof of his age being his experiences and memories, even though even they sometimes seemed to slightly dissolve as time passed. He did not know how to spend the day but he knew he was in no mood for partying (despite what George had suggested when he had called him). He was watching and petting Thisbe as she was eating when an idea came to him and made him leave the secure lair of his flat. When he came back three hours later, he still didn’t know how old he was, but he was at least happy to have his arms all scratched by a tortoiseshell kitten he had decided to name Melchior. The kitten was a terror, and strangely reminded him of John, but as soon as they had arrived home, he had snuggled up on Paul’s lap and had not left his side all day long. Luckily, his brother was at the moment around London and accepted to come spend the rest of the day with him in his flat, and despite Mike’s initial insistence to know what Paul was so miserable about, he finally accepted to let it go and humoured him by not talking about anything deep all afternoon. Among all the calls and cards he received, Paul noticed with a sharp pain in the heart that none of them were from John, but he did his best not to linger on it. When the night was already advanced, he drove his brother back to his hotel, and came back to his car feeling somewhat satisfied to have survived the day without feeling utterly destroyed about John. 

Then he started the engine, turned on the radio, and was instantly met with John’s voice singing ‘Ticket To Ride’.  
This time, he couldn’t stop himself from crying the whole way home.

On the day of the BBC ‘Our World’ broadcast, the irony of singing ‘All You Need Is Love’ for millions to see while sitting right next to his ex-boyfriend was not lost on Paul.

It was a weird day, to say the least. It had started with Ringo warning John and George that the broadcast would be in black and white, which visibly soured John’s mood right away. There were fans in the studio, and friends, and it was loud and busy. Paul was nervous, afraid of what their performance would look like this time: he knew he was able to hide his emotions pretty well, but he feared it was not the same story for John. Especially when the man had dark circles that reached his jaw and was snapping at everyone who dared talk to him. He kept throwing dark looks at Paul, and even if Paul was good at keeping his calm, his nerves were wearing a bit thin. _Love is all you need indeed_.

When the live started, Paul jumped into it with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. John was sitting next to him, a bit farther than in his memory, and was singing clearly (without a gum this time) but as the song progressed, Paul noticed he didn’t even look at him once and got frustrated. He wondered what had really prompted the writing of the song, if it was a generation atmosphere he had picked up again or if there were some personal roots in it. He did think the song had to be about him, at least a little bit, but the fact that it was practically unchanged from the original one left him puzzled. Despite John’s cold attitude, there was no glitch in their performance, and when they all finished in clapping and cheering, he was genuinely smiling too. He loved that song, he loved the message it carried, and he specifically loved John’s voice on it. It sounded even rawer, more earnest now than the first time around. 

The second the broadcast stopped though, John went back to being acutely irritable. It started with the cameramen first, who were too clumsy and messed with the chord of his guitar. Then it moved onto the audience, who were ‘too fucking loud’ and a ‘bunch of illiterate idiots’. As they left the makeshift recording room for a little buffet thrown out for the occasion, John’s irritability focused on George, who he deemed had ‘played like a clown’ during the recording. Paul was straining not to lose patience, and he felt bad to watch Brian struggle to calm the other man. He felt the glances George and Ringo kept sending him (hell, even Neil, Mick, Eric and pretty much everyone else was doing the same at that point) but he ignored them, knowing full well that him talking to John when he was in this mood would _not_ help things. Especially since John was likely in this mood _because of_ him.

There was a lot of noise in the room, the 50 or so people all chatting, eating and congratulating themselves for the broadcasting. Paul was talking with Brian in the reception room when he saw from the corner of his eye John down a glass of wine and walk straight to them with a determined look on his face. He didn’t have time to react that his ex-boyfriend was standing right front of them, glancing from one to the other with a bitter grin. 

“So. Lads. Laddy-lads. Shite performance, was it not? Shite song, too. But a very lovely day apart from that.”

“I thought it was really good,” Brian answered, and his collected expression impressed Paul. “You’re being unfair to yourself.”

John snorted and turned to Paul. 

“How did you like the song, _Paulie_? Did you like its message? You have a lot of love to give, you.”

“John. Stop,” Paul warned him firmly, not liking the direction the conversation was taking. 

But as expected John simply tilted his head and squinted. The glint in his eyes spelled out trouble. 

“Or what?” He asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

“Is everything alright?” Brian asked with a firm voice, and Paul could sense his worry and discomfort.

“Peachy,” John answered, still glaring at Paul. 

He then turned away and zigzagged through the crowed and out of sight. Sensing more disaster was to come, Paul put a light hand on Brian’s elbow.

“Excuse-me.”

He left his manager and in quick steps he followed the direction John had gone in, and without surprise he did spot John as he was sitting directly in George’s personal space and talking a little too animatedly. George who was calmly eating crisps, just listened to him and kept shaking his head.

“You can tell me. Just fucking tell me,” John was saying as Paul approached and stopped in front of them.

“What’s going on?” Paul asked with a clear voice.

“It’s none of your business,” John replied with a side glare.

George sighed, trying to pull back and have a little more space for himself.

“John is convinced I failed the song on purpose.”

Paul frowned at John, but before he had a chance to say anything John lashed out, his eyes darker than ever. 

“Oh yeah, go ahead, defend him again, your precious baby George!”

Paul squared his jaw and spotted George looking at John with the most unimpressed expression one could possibly wear. Making a decision in a split second, Paul grabbed John’s wrist and pulled him up. 

“What the—” John started indignantly.

“Shut up. Follow me.”

Leaving a mildly curious George behind, Paul dragged John through the corridors of the EMI offices. John cursed at him for a moment, then seemingly gave up when he realized cursing did not lighten Paul’s hold on his wrist. Paul searched for a quiet corner, but there seemed to be people everywhere. After trying half a dozen of doors, he finally opened one that gave onto a particularly untidy storeroom and pushed John into it before closing the door. John cast a disgusted glance at the dusty room before leaning against the wall and sighing so exaggeratedly that it just had to be painful.

“Alright, now that you’ve saved Georgie doll, does your ego feel better? Can I go back to my freedom?” He mumbled with crossed arms, his glare still very much present.

“Why the hell are you acting like this?” Paul retorted, struggling not to be snappy too. “I know things suck lately and that you don’t want to talk to me, but you shouldn’t push everyone out like that. Come on, please. You would regret it.”

“You have no idea what I would regret or not,” John childishly retorted, and Paul was truly annoyed now. 

“Don’t be such a ch—”

John uncrossed his arms and came into Paul’s space in a flash. 

“Don’t you fucking call me a child,” He spat, and his voice was so firm, so infuriated that Paul immediately shut his mouth.

They glared at each other for a moment, and Paul was very aware of the slightly wavering finger John was pushing into his chest, of the shortness of his breathing and of the burning intensity of his gaze. He was also dismayed to realize that, unnoticed to him at first, himself had got a bit hard along the way.

“You need to stop acting like a tosser right now or I’m quitting the band,” He asserted firmly, trying to ignore his body waking up at the worst possible time. 

“You would never dare. You’re nothing without me,” John spat out, his dark eyes throwing out daggers… but something else, too.

“Don’t fucking push me. I did it once, I can do it again.”

They stared at each other for a timeless moment, the spark in John’s darkened eyes seemingly the only thing that made sense in the universe. Until Paul twitched, or maybe it was John, and suddenly John’s mouth was crashing against his.

It was as if Paul’s body was shocked and brought back to life. In a matter of seconds, his skin caught on fire, his heart started to run and he pressed himself closer to John, always closer. John’s kisses were hungry, wet and open-mouthed, and Paul felt whiplashed from how much he suddenly _wanted_ him; wanted _more_. Their fingers were bruising each other’s flesh, digging into the skin, and yet it wasn’t enough. John ripped his glasses off his face and threw them aside. Paul tilted his head and slipped his hands on John’s neck, bumping into his necklaces. He slid his thumbs up to caress the base of John’s ears, and the moan the other man let out was positively obscene. Paul felt his hands fumble around his trousers’ buttons, quick and feverish, and he briefly let go of John’s jaw to help him. Then John’s hand was in his briefs and he whined, leaning into the other man and dropping his already sweaty forehead against his. He could feel John’s erratic breathing over his mouth and felt like he was going to burst at the seams.

“Fuck… I want… fuck…” He panted nonsensically, frowning in front of the sudden violence of his desire.

Somehow, _somehow_, John seemed to understand and he surged up to kiss him again, bumping into his nose and half-biting him. He pulled back for a moment to pull both of their briefs down before quickly coming back up, right in Paul’s face. 

“Turn around,” He whispered in his mouth, his voice huskier than ever.

Paul didn’t even take time to nod and basically threw himself hands first against the wall, John’s palms falling on his hips and his burning body coming to melt against his back. They were making noise, so much noise, and yet Paul didn’t care. They were already so close and this was too much, too fast, but when he felt John’s damp fingers trailing down, Paul just bit on his inner cheeks and pushed the cardboards on the floor to spread his feet. This was _insane_; there were so many people in the building – most of them total strangers. Anyone could come in and catch them and the door was not even locked. And yet, he reached blindly behind to grab John’s hand, and John clumsily laced their fingers together before putting them against the wall. He could feel John’s lips and breath on his nape, he could hear his whining (it almost sounded like he was crying) and it was _so_ fucking painful but also so impossibly _good_, and they were together, just like he needed it and finally, finally the tension was coming to the edge and—

“I need to—” John started whimpering, his body trembling behind Paul.

Indistinct voices rising somewhere in the hallway cut him off and all at once Paul gasped and John’s free hand came over his mouth. They both froze, half-undressed and pressed against the wall. They were so close they were practically fused together and despite the clothes, Paul could feel John’s every muscle, every heaving of his chest, the frantic beating of his heart and the shaking of his whole body. They waited for agonizing seconds for the voices to fade away as the people were walking down the hallway. When it was finally silent again, Paul felt John practically collapse on him. He dropped his forehead on Paul’s neck and sighed so deeply it rattled Paul too. Paul was drained, still high from the pleasure and already sorer than he had ever been. He was still breathing so loudly he had trouble hearing anything else. He remained still for a couple of stunned seconds, completely confused on how to act now, until John clumsily pulled away and came back immediately to slide his arms around his waist, tucking his head into Paul’s neck again and hugging him so hard it almost hurt. Paul felt stupid, pointless tears tickle his eyes and he closed them, dragging his own hands over John’s arms and gripping them hard. 

They stayed a while like that, just breathing against each other with their hearts struggling to find a regular rhythm. Paul did not dare move and break the spell that was surrounding them. He didn’t want to be dragged back to a reality where he had no illusion John’s and his problems would still be very real, and nothing would be fixed. 

When the high started dissipating and Paul’s limbs started to feel cold and numb, he involuntarily fidgeted a bit and John startled, instantly releasing his hold on him. Paul stepped away from the wall and now that he was on his own again, he felt small and freezing. Without a word and without even glancing at each other, they pulled up their pants and tried to find some semblance of decency back. When it was done, Paul did not know what to do to extend the moment, so he just looked up at John and stared at his flushed face and his glossy eyes, hidden behind his round glasses again. John was avoiding his gaze, but it was so clear that he was holding up tears that Paul felt sick all over again. John picked up a stiff sponge lying around and tried to clean up the mess on the wall as good as he could before throwing it back into a corner of the room. His gaze stubbornly glued to the floor, he wringed his hands and Paul had the feeling he was keeping himself from reaching out.

“I’m sorry,” John suddenly whispered, and Paul would not be sure he had heard him right if it wasn’t for the embarrassed fear colouring his expression. 

Then he turned around to the door, opened it brutally and froze. Paul could see his chest heaving from behind, and his own heart was beating wildly in his heart. Slowly, as if he had twitched, John half-turned back to him, his face still cast downwards.

“Are you quitting the band?” He asked, his voice surprisingly clear.

Paul swallowed with difficulty.

“No.”

A second passed, and John nodded. To Paul or to himself, it was not sure.

“Good,” He simply said.

And he left.

The awful thing about going back to the buffet room, long after John had left the storeroom, was that no matter how open Paul tried to be about the whole thing, he just felt dirty like a cheap prostitute. He knew it was uncalled for, _this_ was nothing like that, not by a mile, but he felt so vulnerable and so confused that every look he caught his way bore the weight of his own judgment upon himself. He came back to the room, took another glass of wine, joined Ringo and Mick to converse. He was smiling and charming as usual, but the stressed fluttering of his heart only calmed a bit when his eyes settled on John, talking with members of the audience. And _John_ – John looked thoroughly fucked out. His hair was outrageously messier, and he looked so glorious with his sparkling eyes, his red cheeks and chapped lips that he was glowing from it, and Paul was sure, he was sure that someone else just had to see it too. He could not possibly be the only person to see it, and yet nobody seemed to notice, nobody seemed to care. As if he was the only person in the world to actually see John, to see how utterly magnificent he was.

He was still staring at John from across the room when said man turned his head and looked directly at him. And for a brief second, Paul could have sworn he was smiling.

“When did you start believing us? You know, for the future thing.”

Paul was sitting in a deckchair, making Grace lightly bounce on his knee to the baby’s greatest delight. He turned to George and had to squint because of the surprisingly bright sun. It was the end of June already, and summer was taking its righteous place on the British landscape. George, who was lying on another deckchair next to him and shielding his eyes with his hand, pouted pensively for a while. 

“Well, I didn’t really know what I believed or not,” He confessed. “But then Disney died. And then a few days later Tara died and it was just obvious that, like, you knew it would happen. And when I thought about it again I just… I don’t know, I just realized that I did believe you.”

Paul hummed, Gracie happily babbling on his lap.

“Do you have questions?” He wondered, remembering his first conversation with John after he had accepted the truth too.

But George simply grimaced and shook his head as he was bending to fetch a pair of sunglasses lying on the floor.

“Na. I don’t want to know. I mean, I do know stuff now, thanks to you. But I don’t need to know more.”

“I’m sorry,” Paul breathed out.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” George guaranteed with a little grin. 

Then, as Paul was focusing on holding onto Grace’s chubby hands, George went on.

“I’m the one who’s sorry, actually. I think life should remain a bit mysterious. And it’s not fair that you and Ring were robbed of that.”

Paul huffed and pulled a bit on the baby’s hat to make sure it was protecting her eyes. 

“You didn’t deserve that,” George added – and he sounded so sure of himself that Paul couldn’t help the sad snort that escaped him.

Feeling George’s eyes on him, he elaborated:

“To be honest, I don’t know what I deserve anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

Paul turned on the chair to be facing George’s lying form, back to the sun, sat Grace’s tiny body in a secured position against his belly and brought his hands on the baby’s ears. 

“I did a bad thing,” He started in a whisper, which only caused a frown to appear on George’s face. “I, uh… I had sex with John.”

The grimace on George’s face would have been extremely funny if Paul wasn’t so desperate to get his feelings off his chest. It was a sensation he was actually _not_ used to at all. One of the perks of following a regular therapy, probably. He had been thinking about John’s and his encounter nonstop ever since it had happened, and Brian’s worried phone call the day after had really not helped either. Paul had been truthful to him, had said that they were currently separated (he clung onto that ‘currently’ like a drowning man to a buoy) but that it wouldn’t affect the band. However, the more he thought about John’s miserable expression and his mysterious ‘sorry’ right after their hook-up, the more he was filled with doubts about that.

Unaware of Paul’s train of thoughts, George hesitatingly inquired:

“Uh… can’t you like. Rather talk to Ringo about that…?”

“George.”

George sighed, the sort of queasy grimace still embedded on his face.

“Fine. When?” He indulged Paul.

Paul shuffled on his seat, his neck growing a bit hot. He was still covering Grace’s ears with his hands.

“After the BBC broadcast.”

George observed him with a frown for a moment, then lowered his glasses to look straight at Paul. His eyes comically widened and his grimace only deepened.

“_At the EMI offices_? Seriously?”

“It wasn’t planned!”

“Yeah, I hope so,” George snorted. “But why is that a bad thing, then? Wasn’t that like, the goal?”

“Not like that,” Paul refuted with a frown of his own. “And it was just… so sad. I feel like things are even worse now, and I don’t know if he’ll ever talk to me again.”

George watched him silently for a while, his sunglasses still sitting uselessly at the tip of his noise. 

“Have you seen him since?”

“No. You know I haven’t.”

“Well there’s the Monkees party on Monday. You can see how he’s acting then.”

Paul snorted, dropping his gaze to the baby his lap again and finally taking his hands off her ears.

“Yeah, I’m definitely _not_ going there.”

“You can’t avoid him forever,” George pointedly noted.

“I can still try to avoid him a little bit, though, can’t I,” Paul grimaced.

George quietly chuckled, pushed his glasses up his nose again and lied his head back down on his deckchair. 

“I’m so glad I’m not you right now.”

Paul looked at him with disbelief, Grace babbling in his lap again. 

“That’s of great help,” He retorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Thanks.”

But George merely raised a thumb up at him. The bastard. Then he suddenly raised his head back up and hastily turned to Paul.

“Wait. Was it when you dragged him away from me?!”

Paul merely smirked, happy to see the tables turn a bit when George’s expression turned even more grossed out.

“Oh for fuck’s sa—!”

As July started with its waves of heat, Paul struggled to step again into a new rhythm of life. Scared to relapse into another bout of depression, he did his best to follow his therapist’s advice (she knew he was going through a breakup, even though he had not divulged any compromising details). He cooked for himself, kept in touch with his family, spent as much time with friends as possible. He found that just as when he had arrived in the past, painting helped to calm his clouded mind. And music, of course, was his biggest comfort. He could not stop thinking about John, obviously, and the pain sometimes led him to feel a numb apathy to everything. However, he didn’t want to let his loved ones down by giving up all hope. The looming prospect of Ringo’s and his return to the future was still as scary as before, but he tried to teach himself into looking at it from an emotionally realistic point of view (with the unaware help of his therapist, and with George’s words still lingering in his mind): whatever was to happen, he had likely no power over it. Consequently, punishing himself by ruining his present was an unfair reaction to himself and to those around him. The only thing he could actively do to make things better was to enjoy his present, and try to be here as much as possible for his loved ones. It was hard, and it hurt to know that he could not properly make amends with John on that, but he had to try. 

In a way, he guessed that if he did have to leave, it would eventually be easier for both of them for it to happen sooner than later. After all, even if Paul was utterly heart-broken and that he knew John was not doing much better, it was probably less painful to disappear now that they were separated and in a relatively ‘fresh’ emotional situation than if it happened ten years later with them living happily together. Beyond the wrong he had been in in lying to John about the update on their time-travelling, Paul realized also that he had been quite selfish to remain with John and to pursue a relationship that was bound to finish in heartache. Although, if he was honest to himself, he knew perfectly that if John was willing to give him a second chance he would jump on it without a second thought. A tiny voice in his head guaranteed to him that any minute of happiness with John was worth having, was it to have a sorrowful ending or not.

When George suggested going all together on a holiday somewhere far away, Paul’s initial reaction was to a loud ‘no’. He had managed not to see John ever since the BBC recording, and although he knew he was eventually bound to see him and to have to deal with his hurt, he was reluctant to have to do it now. However, much to his surprise, Ringo was certain going on a holiday all together would do them all good and had ended up convincing him after long negotiations. They both agreed they needed to go somewhere new and thus chose to go to Malta where they found two huge secluded villas quite well-situated. Both feeling a bit nostalgic, they decided to propose the trip to the same participants who had been there the first time around: George and Pattie, Pattie’s 16-year-old sister Paula, Neil, Mal and Alistair Taylor. And, obviously, John too – invitation they had extended to Cynthia and Julian as they didn’t want for the child to stay so long away from his father again (as they were to go for 10 days). John had taken a long time to agree into going, and Paul had spent the several days of suspense gnawing his fingers away. When his response finally came, only three days before their departure, Paul had been both so relieved and apprehensive that his stomach had started aching continuously right after Ringo’s call – and was to last for a good while. 

Paul took the same plane as George, Pattie (who had left their little Gracie’s mum), Paula, Neil and Alistair, and was shocked right as they stepped onto the Malta tarmac by the moistness of the heat. All along the drive to the villas, his nerves had got more and more frayed knowing that John and his family were supposed to have arrived the previous day already with the others. The second they entered the gates, his eyes locked on the lean figure with the auburn hair and the piercing gaze and his stomach flipped and warmed at once. As they got out of the taxi and approached the little welcoming committee, Paul panickly wondered how he was supposed to say hi to John – how to behave with him, period. Were they still friends? He liked to think that yes, they were. He could literally not imagine himself not being friends with John. John had always been and would always be his friend. But would the pain and awkwardness allow them to really salvage that friendship before it felt into the frustrating distance it had been in during the early 70s…?

The good thing, he realized quickly, was that since there were so many of them, the greetings were messy and uncoordinated. He said hi to everyone with hugs and kisses, genuinely happy to see them all. When he searched John’s gaze and the other man looked back at him with an unreadable expression, he offered him a shy little smile, hoping this would be neutral enough to keep them on a truce. After a few seconds of expectation, John’s face softened a bit and he smiled back. It was tiny, but it was there. 

The arriving group settled into the free villa, and it was sort of a relief for Paul not to be in the same as John. He was not sure he could handle the risk of seeing his ex-boyfriend walk around in his pyjamas, or coming out of the shower. It had been hard enough back when they were on tour and were not… frolicking, yet, and he could not begin to imagine how hard it would be now. Just realizing that he was going to see John in his shorts and in his swimsuit, _all wet and tan_, and that he would not be able to do anything about it was his own definition of hell. The first night on the island was relaxed and filled with cheerful conversations, and when Paul managed to unglue his gaze from John’s quiet, smiling form sitting in a chair at the other end of the table, he was actually having a very good time. 

The first few days followed in the same fashion: they would most likely split in groups and go visit the interesting locations of the island during the day and gather in the evenings to dine all together or to go out for drinks for the most motivated ones. As Paul had expected, being in John’s presence was harder than pining for him from the safety of his flat. The other man still looked tired and afflicted, and he was significantly less loud and talkative than usual, but he looked so handsome and just… _hot_ that Paul was tempted more than once to just say ‘fuck it’ to everything and kiss him right there and then. Not that John would let him, obviously, but it was a fantasy that kept popping up in his head and kept him awake at night longer than his tired body would have allowed. They didn’t talk beyond the strict necessary, or during group chats, and John generally avoided eye contact (and contact of any sort). They rarely went into the same ‘visiting groups’, too, John always choosing a different activity from Paul even when Paul knew perfectly it wasn’t his favourite choice. It pained Paul, but as he knew it was only logical, he was trying not to take it too personally. Which, of course, was idiotic since it was _very fucking personal_, but still. 

Paul was also particularly pleased and touched to witness that John spent a considerable amount of time with Julian, and nearly always chose the option of the day or night that involved him staying with his son – even keeping him to let Cynthia go do her own thing a couple of times, which Cynthia seemed to be quite happy about to. Not that Paul had actually talked to either of them about it, but he was so attuned to John’s every movement that he was probably able to reconstruct his whole schedule hour per hour. Whatever that said about him. Seeing John with his son made him miss his own family, but it also awoke in him a crave to have a real, an actual family with John that he had not fully realized thus far. The thought was even more excruciating now that the chances of that happening were close to zero. It was weird to notice that the pain of what he couldn’t have with John was now more acute than the pain of what he had left behind, albeit involuntarily. Not that he didn’t miss his kids and grandkids anymore (there was no way that could ever happen), but that specific ache had turned into a soft, tenacious melancholy, of sorts. Whereas seeing John right there, being his utterly and effortlessly brilliant self, and knowing he couldn't have him furiously burned in him. 

Being in Cynthia’s presence ended up being a bit uncomfortable, too. He had not seen her since New Year’s, and their last phone call, on the night of John’s and Paul’s breakup, had been such a bubble of fear and anxiety that Paul had not remembered at all at the time that she actually _knew about them_. She was, without much surprise, exactly as lovely as she had always been to him; she smiled at him as much as usual, and Paul almost thought he could detect a hint of sympathy in her eyes. He guessed that even if John had not told her about the breakup, it had to be pretty obvious to her – after all, she had been married to John for years, and she knew first-hand what it was like to be dumped by John Lennon. The day Paul had realized that huge, ironic common point they now had, he almost wanted to laugh. On several occasions he caught himself wanting to apologize to her, or at least to acknowledge their odd situation, but when he saw how normally she was behaving and how calm she was, he figured it might stir up pain and trouble where there didn’t need be. In the end, he was dealing with enough pain as it was.

On their fourth day of holiday, John surprised Paul when he chose to go to the same activity as he did. With Ringo, Maureen and Neil, they were to go on a little rented boat to check out a nearby island, which was reputed for its beautiful creeks and scenery. They left in the early afternoon, and during the whole sailing towards the island, Paul had to strain himself not to stare at John, who was wearing white shorts and a mariner’s cap that suited him perfectly. They were sitting one across each other, and John had propped up his legs and was leaning his arms on them, staring at the horizon pensively. To keep himself calm and occupied, Paul was forced to drink a lot of cold water (thankfully the boat had a toilet). Ringo, Maureen and Neil were happily chatting, with Neil sailing the boat, and when they arrived in one of the creeks Paul was momentarily distracted from staring at John by the breath-taking view. They stopped the engine and set up to enjoy the sun and chilly water, and Paul was more than happy to dive into the blue and let the sea wash his problems away. 

Around two hours later they were all getting a bit tired of swimming and of the blazing sun, and pink was already popping up on their cheeks and noses despite the sunscreen. Paul was attempting to dry his hair in a towel, dripping onto the floor of the boat, and lazily listened to Ringo and Maureen laugh as they were play-fighting to climb back first into the boat. Neil had already prepared the engine of the boat and was coming back to the helm, still dripping too, and John was out of sight – probably still in the water. 

“Careful or you’ll slip,” Paul noted with a chuckle as he watched Neil move swiftly into the open cabin. 

Neil glanced at his feet and grinned but did not slow his movements so much. 

“No worries, I’m a real sailor. I’ve got sure feet,” He replied playfully. 

“A sailor,” Paul snorted. “Specialized in sailing boats with wheels.”

Neil pulled a face at him and a second later Maureen was sitting on the bench next to Paul. 

“I swear I can’t feel my arms anymore,” She announced, feeling her arm muscles. “I shouldn’t have stayed in so long.”

“It’s good for the health,” Ringo interjected as he was enrolling himself in a towel a bit farther. 

“Is John in yet?” Neil asked, his nimble fingers already trafficking the helm of the boat.

Paul bent over and looked at the ladder on the side of the boat, on which John was still climbing, only one foot dropping tentatively on the floor.

“Not yet.” He said as the same time as Ringo briefly glanced at John’s first leg on the floor and said: “Yeah, he’s here.”

It all happened at once: Neil turned the key, the boat roared and moved abruptly forward, like a car stalling because of a wrong start and John yelled a sharp cry of fear. Paul’s blood chilled instantly and, his feet moving on their own accord, he ran to the ladder, nearly falling face first in the process too. 

“JOHN!”

Holding himself onto the top of the ladder, Paul threw a panicked look overboard and for a few terrifying seconds, he could only see the turbulent water swirling all around because of the engine. His heart beating in his throat and in his ears, he felt distress sting at his eyes until suddenly, a mop of hair appeared a few meters from the boat, followed by a tiny distraught face.

“John! Are you alright?!” Paul asked frenetically. 

Ringo, Maureen and Neil were right behind him but Paul only had eyes for his love, quickly swimming back to the ladder. He climbed it with unsure feet, and accepted the hand Paul reached out to help him fully into the boat. When he finally had both feet on the floor, Paul took him by the shoulders and frantically searched his eyes. 

“You okay?” He asked again, softer – and his voice was choked by emotion.

John met his gaze and he looked properly shaken, but he nodded nevertheless, his eyes never leaving Paul’s. Now shaking from head to feet, Paul pulled him to him and hugged him tightly, tucking his head into his neck. Trembling too and still a bit out of breath, John hugged him back, and when Paul felt his heartbeat against his chest, his own heart slowly calmed down. 

“I’m so sorry John, I thought—” Paul heard Neil start behind him. 

In a flash anger rose in him, fuelled by his fear, and he turned vividly to Neil, stepping towards him with a raised hand while his other hand remained locked around John’s bicep.

“_What the actual fuck_ Neil?!” He roared, vibrating with fury. “Are you a fucking moron?! He could have _fucking drowned!_"

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Neil frowned, a bit spooked. 

“Come on Paul, it was an accident…” Ringo tried quietly. 

But Paul could not hear him, blinded by the absolute terror that had gripped him. 

“What is fucking wrong with you?!” He went on, glaring at Neil and breathless from how much he was still shaking. 

“Paul… Paul, love…”

The voice slowly cleared the fog in his head, and he felt light, wet hands on his belly and on his arm. He turned around, a bit distraught still, and met John’s soft, so soft eyes. 

“I’m okay,” John gently told him with a nod. “I’m okay, love.”

Paul focused on John’s eyes and on his voice, nodding too, and ever so slowly, his heart rate came back to a rhythm a bit more sustainable. The hand that was on his arm was caressing his skin, but he still had trouble really feeling it as he was slowly realizing that _it was okay_. John was okay. It was just a tiny accident. After a moment of eye contact, John dropped both his gaze and the hand he had on Paul’s belly and Paul finally remembered that they were very much not alone. He turned back to the others, his neck growing hot, and faced Ringo’s worried expression, and Neil and Maureen’s puzzled and slightly frightened faces.

“Okay! Well, we should go back home, now. I think it’s enough emotions for one day,” Ringo declared loudly, attracting the attention of the other two. 

They all agreed, and in a few minutes the boat was running and taking them back to the coast. Not caring whether he was supposed or allowed to do it, Paul went to sit next to John, drawing strength from the slow, regular rising of his chest. When he reached out to take John’s hand in his, he was relieved to see the other man hold on tight to it. 

He couldn’t care less if the others saw it or not.

All the way back to the villa, Paul had felt a bit dizzy. John was fine – he had assured him of it several times already – but still he couldn’t help but to glance at him even more than usual. The tale of the boat having a false start occupied a good part of their dinner conversation that night, and Paul was comforted to see that Cynthia at least did not seem to find the story as funny as the others did either. 

When dinner was finished and everyone floated back to their own occupations, Paul saw Cynthia quietly get up and go to the garden, a shawl draped over her shoulders that was hugging around her. Obeying to his instinct, he got up and followed her. 

She was standing at the beginning of the garden and watching the setting sun they could perceive on the horizon, despite the few clouds sprinkling the sky. Ever so slowly he walked up to her, clearing his throat not to scare her. She turned and smiled when she recognized him, but didn’t say anything. He stopped and stood next to her, directing his attention to the setting sun too. From where they were, they could barely hear the voices of the others in the villa. After a moment, he turned his head to her. Stress was boiling in his throat.

“Can I... can I ask you a question? It’s probably too personal, and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, you know, but—”

“Just ask,” Cynthia cut him off, weary but not mean.

Paul watched her round, tired face. He breathed deeply before jumping right in. He needed to know if he wanted that months-old itch to disappear.

“What did you fight about? The night John left?”

Cynthia held his gaze for a while, unreadable, then turned her head out to the horizon again. Silent. Then, finally:

“He told me he was unfaithful.”

Paul waited, feeling that she wouldn’t stop there. And she proved him right a few seconds later.

“I think I always knew he was seeing other girls. I kept hoping I was just being paranoid, you know, but I wasn’t really surprised. I thought if we talked about it, if we tried hard enough… that we could work it out, somehow,” She chuckled self-deprecatingly. “But he said he couldn’t because he was in love with someone else. That he had been for a while and that… he couldn’t do this to me, anymore.”

At those words, Paul felt his breath get knocked out of him. Cynthia just went on, ignoring him.

“At first I kept picturing a tall, blond woman. Someone beautiful, an artist maybe, someone who he could talk for hours with about deep subjects like… loneliness, or reincarnation, you know. But after a while though, I just sort of… made my peace, with never knowing who it was. It was easier, in a way,” She paused and carefully observed Paul’s face with a pensive expression. “Then one day you came to the house for that interview. And I… _finally_, I saw the way he looked at you…”

She trailed off, biting her lip as if she was hesitating whether she should finish her thought or not. When she looked at Paul again, her gaze was so intense he felt something unpleasant scraping his throat. She chuckled and gave him the saddest smile Paul had ever seen on her.

“You’re the love of his life, Paul,” She confessed, quiet and genuine. “The rest of us never stood a chance.”

The beat that followed her words felt so silent, so fragile, that Paul felt almost bad to break it.

“I’m sorry,” He pushed out, hoarse.

“What for? Because my husband fell in love with you or because you love him back?” 

When Paul didn’t answer, his throat being so contracted he could barely breathe, she went on.

“Either way, you have nothing to be sorry for. Neither does John. You don’t… I guess you don’t control things like that.”

Paul just smiled at her, not really knowing better on the matter. He had been in love several times, had lived all types of relationships, and yet it still felt like he was rediscovering everything all over again every day. They remained side by side until the sun had totally disappeared from view, a quiet feeling of understanding floating between them.

The next day, after having spent hours with Mal walking around the nearest city to discover its markets and architecture, Paul was bone-tired. The group as a whole had decided to throw a sort of little mid-holiday party in the evening, and they had bought lots of food and alcohol to celebrate. Paul was not drinking much, a bit afraid of the potential headache with all the sun he had absorbed during the day, but most of the others were cheerfully tipsy quite quickly. 

They were all on the terrace, enjoying the warm night. Paul was sitting in a couch next to Neil (to whom he had apologized in the morning, realizing that the boat accident was not really his fault) and idly listening to George on the nearest chair narrating the story of Pattie’s friend trying to convince them into going to a swingers club. Alistair and Pattie were laughing along, Pattie correcting him frequently, and John was smiling around his glass from where he was sitting, basically right in front of Paul (although a few meters away). All the others were on the terrace too (minus Julian), chatting together on their side. Paul had not seen John much during the day but he had noticed that for some reason, when the other man now looked at him, it was with a tender glint in his eyes. 

“Why didn’t you go?” John asked at the end of George’s story, which earned him an elbow from Pattie. Then, grinning mischievously, he added: “What? It’s a legitimate question.”

“Yeah, listen to John’s advice, Geo. It’s always good,” Neil joked. 

“Sure it is. Never say no to a foursome is my motto.”

Paul chuckled into his beer, and felt John’s sharp gaze on him for a moment.

“Mmh. Wasted opportunity, I know,” George answered, humming. 

As Neil was laughing and turning to Pattie to tease her (she had turned bright red), George turned to John and added, his voice dropping a bit in volume:

“You’re right, maybe I should do like you. I should just try fucking blokes. Who knows, I might like it.”

John just smiled tightly at George, and Paul could see he wasn’t fully amused. Paul bit his lip, feeling an unpleasant sensation in his stomach. When he stopped to think about it, he realized it was not the first time George was insinuating what was going on between John and Paul was mostly sexual. It was true that Paul had never _clearly_ stated that he was in love with his friend, but hearing it now and seeing John’s reserved expression pulled on his heart in a different way.

A crazy thought crossed his mind, and the second it was in, he couldn’t chase it away. He looked at John again, saw his slightly closed-in face. Something stirred in him at the sight and he recalled John’s pleading, more than two months prior now. It had been such a simple demand in comparison to everything else that was going on, and yet Paul had pushed it aside indeterminately too. 

And it was time, wasn’t it? 

“It’s not just ‘fucking blokes’,” He said firmly, his strong voice cutting through the chuckles and giggles and quickly capturing the curious glances of the others.

George turned slightly drunk, shining eyes to him.

“What?” He simply said, chuckling.

“It’s not just ‘fucking blokes’, with John,” Paul repeated, staring at George and ignoring how with these few words he had gotten everyone’s undivided attention. “We’re in love.”

He stopped, raised his beer to his lips and pointed the end of it at John. And then, feeling like it was the most natural thing in the world, he added loud and clear: 

“I love him.” 

George’s eyebrows shot up on his forehead and his lips parted around his half-lifted beer. Paul quickly assessed everyone’s – rather shocked – reactions before stopping to look at John. He had a strange expression on his face: a mixture of shock, fear, but also… satisfaction? Or a bit of pride, maybe? Paul sent him the tiniest, quickest smile he could muster and turned back to George. He really hoped he didn’t sound offended, or belligerent – this was not about George. It was about Paul and John. It was about being free.

“If you want to make jokes about us, go ahead. Be my guest,” He calmly told George with an easy smile. “But don’t forget that I love him more than everyone else.” 

He gulped down some of his beer, aware of the deep silence that had fallen upon the terrace, and put it down on the floor before getting up. 

“Now if you’ll excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, I need to take a piss.”

Trying to ignore the sudden burn in his cheeks, he quickly got into the house and meandered towards the nearest bathroom. As soon as he was alone inside, a litany of ‘_what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck_’ flowed in his mind. Had he really just done that? Had he just freaking _come out_ to all his friends at once?! He got into the corridor of the ground floor bathroom and had to stop in his tracks to bring his hands to his head and try to calm the slight freak out he was experiencing. He couldn’t quite believe what he had just done and yet, he was surprised at how _fucking relieved_ he actually felt. Was that it? Was that what a free consciousness felt like…?

“I think that was the most romantic thing you’ve ever said,” A nasal voice suddenly said behind him. 

Paul turned around in a flash and sure enough John was standing there, an amused glint in his eyes as he was embarrassedly tucking his hands in his shorts’ pockets. The sight made Paul’s heart flutter and a smile tugged at his lips. He slowly lowered his arms.

“Was it?” He asked, trying to tame the hope in his voice.

“Yes. Even though it was followed by the _least_ romantic thing you’ve ever said.”

Paul dropped his head for a second and chuckled. John tilted his head and kept looking at him.

“Bold of you to assume I’m still in love with you, though.”

“What can I say, I’m a bold man.”

John watched him with intense eyes, then slightly chuckled. The sound was so soft that Paul just wanted to take him in his arms and tuck him into bed. Or kiss him until their lips hurt, and beyond. He briefly wondered if John remembered saying these same words to Paul, what felt like ages before. He expected the other man to add something but John just smiled, a quick, sad thing, and turned around to leave. Paul felt his heart fall into his socks again and he couldn’t help the cry escaping out of him.

“Wait!”

John stopped and slowly turned back around. Paul took in his face, his gorgeous, so lively face, and gaped a bit.

“Take me back,” He breathed out.

He had not planned on saying it – had barely dreamt of asking it – but he could not have taken the words back if he had wanted to. Not with how much his heart was filled when he was with this ridiculous, idiotic, perfect friend of his. 

John just observed him silently, his eyes deeper than all the secrets of the world. After a few agonizing seconds, Paul softly added, the words sounding like the deepest truth:

“You’re right. I _can_ live without you.” He paused, licked his lips. Then, feeling his throat getting dry, he added: “But I’ll hate every second of it.”

John didn’t say anything, although his lips had parted the tiniest bit.

“Please,” Paul murmured.

“I don’t…” John started with a very slightly wavering voice, looking a bit shaken. “I haven’t forgiven you yet.”

“I know.”

“And you’re still a twat.”

“…I know.”

They looked at each other for a moment, and suddenly John stepped towards him and his hand was on Paul’s cheek and his lips were on Paul’s. The kiss was tender, trembling, and Paul barely dared reciprocating it by fear of seeing John vanish in front of his eyes. After a few seconds John pulled back, eyes closed, and put his forehead on Paul’s. 

“I need time,” He said, and he was murmuring too. “Just. Just give me time, okay?”

Paul frenetically nodded, and strained not to just hug the other man. Or kiss him again. But John outpaced him and pulled away, looking intensely at him. His hand caressed Paul’s cheek and then he pulled Paul’s head down to drop a kiss on his forehead. Paul closed his eyes and sighed.

The contact warmed his whole being.


	53. Chapter 53

When John gently put his forehead against Paul’s, Paul did not move, striving to commit every sensation to memory. John’s hands around his face, his short breathing over his mouth, the sheen of sweat pearling on his skin. He was longing to get his arms around him, just this once – just to feel him, his heat, his heartbeat. He closed his eyes even harder when he realized they were going to have to break the spell very soon.

Suddenly he felt John’s forehead moving; he was looking up at him. So Paul opened his eyes too and met his wondering gaze straight away. There were two beats of silence, then a small, almost amused smile appeared on John’s face. Relief cursing through his veins, Paul smiled back and was about to take his chance and embrace the other man right when a loud creaking resonated behind John. They both startled and John quickly turned around. Steps resonated a bit farther, in the living-room. It was simply someone coming into the house, surely going to the kitchen, and a few seconds later the noise was gone. His heart beating a bit faster now, Paul looked at John as he was turning back to him. 

Face to face with his light brown eyes, the _enormity_ of the situation came back to Paul at once.

“I just outed us,” He blurted out, a bit disbelieving.

John smirked but tried to conceal it right away. 

“Yup. You did,” He nodded.

Paul kept looking at him, then glanced to the living-room they could see from where they were. The voices of the others still on the terrace lightly reached them. A hand poking his shoulder made him turn his head. John looked far too amused. 

“Don’t freak out.”

“I’m not,” Paul retorted straight away, feeling a bit provoked. “Are you?”

At that, John couldn’t fight the grin that overtook his face.

“Nope.”

They kept staring at each other for a moment… until Paul couldn’t hold it anymore and took a deep, shaky breath, his hands coming up to his burning neck on their own accord.

“Fuck,” He whispered. 

John started laughing.

“I knew it! You _are_ freaking out!”

“Shut up.”

He glared at John, who was only grinning harder, diving his hands into his pockets once again. Feeling suddenly vulnerable, Paul couldn’t stop himself from asking in a whisper:

“What should I say to them now? How should we behave…?! What…”

Softness appeared in John’s eyes and he made an aborted gesture towards Paul’s arm.

“Nothing. Nothing’s changed. Just be yourself.”

Paul nodded along, trying to process the words. It was alright. It was going to be alright.

“Did they say something after I got up?” He still asked, nervous.

John pouted slightly and shook his head.

“I followed you right after but um, no. They just looked a bit… let’s say. _Flabbergasted_…?”

Paul brought his hands to grip his own ears with a grimace.

“Oh God…”

“Don’t panic,” John chuckled, bringing a light hand to Paul’s elbow – the contact causing sparks to erupt on Paul’s skin. “It’s fine. The worse is done now. I mean… probably.”

“Okay. Okay, okay…”

“And for the record, I’m glad you told them. I’m… it’s not worth much but I’m proud of you.”

At the gentleness of John’s tone, Paul’s eyes snapped to him and he was at once overwhelmed with love and gratitude. It felt like an olive branch; and Paul wanted the whole tree. 

“It’s worth everything,” He truthfully replied.

John stared at him with an unreadable look, then chuckled lightly. His pink cheeks spoke for his embarrassment though as he started walking down the corridor, signalling to Paul to follow him with his head.

“Alright. Alright, Romeo. Let’s go back to the others now, yeah?”

Paul nodded but as John was starting to leave, another thought popped into his mind.

“Oh, I should tell them we’re—not, together. I’m gonna tell them. Sorry, I should have been more specific from the start. It’s a bit stupid.”

But John merely studied his face, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he shook his head with a little pout.

“Nah. Don’t bother.”

A little taken aback, Paul waited for him to elaborate, but then John simply carried on walking towards the living-room. Shaking himself out of his stupor (why would John say that? Did he really not mind? Or did he think… maybe…?), Paul followed him. Each step felt heavier and heavier, his heart beating louder than usual in his chest. The voices outside grew louder, then John opened the glass window, stepped onto the terrace and Paul’s legs were moving on their own until…

He was there too, on the terrace, standing like a fool. John was already sitting back down into his chair, so painfully casual Paul was a bit jealous. However when he was finally settled all spread out in his chair, Paul saw him bring a hand to his mouth and start biting on his nails in a nervous manner, his eyes quickly floating from one person to the next as if to assess their reactions. So, not that casual then. It was not much, but it appeased Paul a bit to see he was not the only one to feel the importance (enormity…!) of the situation. As he briefly surveyed his friends, his eyes caught Cynthia’s, and her silent but intense gaze was almost more than he could bear. He opened his mouth on instinct, but words died on his tongue. What could he possibly say that would lessen the statement he had just placated on all of them? It came to him brutally that what he had done affected Cynthia above everyone else. And he had not taken it into account even for a second. In his brutal urge to set the records straight in front of their friends, he had forgotten the potential pity (or at the very least the inevitable compassionate scrutiny) that could befall on her as a result. People knowing you were separated from your husband while still living with him was one thing, but them knowing said husband was also fooling around with his male bandmate was not quite on the same level…

Although his thoughts had taken just a couple of seconds, the rapidity and apparent easiness with which Cynthia’s tiny smile appeared on her face still amazed him. Relief cursed through him, causing him to let out a little breath he had not realized he had been holding. He knew fully well that this didn’t mean Cynthia was not mad, or upset. Whatever negative emotions she could be feeling, Paul knew she was way too private, polite and considerate to throw them at everyone’s faces. It had to have been a shock for her, even if she had basically given Paul her blessing the day before. He felt sorry for putting her on the spot like that, but now that it was done he could only hope their friends would be tactful enough not to bother her about it. The best he could do at the moment was show her his gratitude, so he gave her a gentle, genuine smile in return. It seemed to him she had gotten the message.

Bracing himself, he turned around and kept his smile on for George, who happened to be already looking at him curiously, then went to sit back on his couch spot too. Everyone (literally _everyone_) glanced at him for a more or less long moment, but they kept chatting together in a visible attempt not to be staring too hard, and Paul was grateful. He wondered again how the advice ‘be yourself’ could really apply when he could only ever be himself. Had always ever been himself. Without meaning to, his mind started to go into overdrive and theories of what was to happen played out behind his eyes. The others would probably either expect him to suddenly act overly feminine or explicit or whatever, or to behave exactly just the same as he had ever had. So what was he supposed to do to answer to these expectations so that he remained true to himself and that no awkwardness seeped into his relationships with his friends? He didn’t want to act more… more _gay_, just because people knew he was. Not that he was. But he kinda was. At least with John. Which was not… a sexuality. He was aware of that, and there probably was more to dig into with the whole ‘men attraction’ thing, but. But one step at a time. He was not heterosexual at least, that was pretty much the extent to which he had accepted to think about it thus far, really. But everyone had always only known him as such. And the thing was, he was not going to suddenly act like someone he was not. He was not a cliché, had never felt like one and didn’t want to be one anyw— was that homophobic? Was he being homophobic to himself?! 

_Jesus, Paul, get a grip_, his mind snarled at him. 

He was thinking about this too much. John and he were separated anyway, so it wasn’t like he was going to be more affectionate with him in public now. There was absolutely no reason to panic about his own behaviour. Nothing had changed. He was still the man he had been before telling his friends he was gay for John. 

His thoughts were interrupted when he felt George nudging his knee and leaning into him.

“You okay?” He asked in a beery whisper, his eyes not leaving Paul’s. 

Paul nodded, plastering an easy grin on his face, and made sure no one was listening to them. Despite his blazingly recent and strikingly sudden coming out, he was not one to enjoy spreading his intimate feelings in public. And he was, okay.

“Yeah, sure. I’m good.”

“Are you sure? I didn’t mean to belittle anything, really. I mean, I kinda figured about John’s feelings but I had no idea you really loved him too, you know? Like, that it was a _real_ real thing. You’ve always looked so detached… I’m sorry, I should have known—”

“Hey no, don’t apologize,” Paul interrupted with a shake of his head. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I just… yeah.” 

George leant back a little, although his slightly raised eyebrows proved he was not fully convinced by Paul’s eloquence. 

“Alright. If you say so.”

With another tight smile, Paul turned his head back to the others but he did not have time to complete the movement that George was nudging him again, his pointy finger digging uncomfortably into Paul’s flesh.

“Does that mean you lads are back together?” He whispered again, and it took every last bit of willpower for Paul not to shush him.

Instead, he gingerly shook his head. 

“Seriously?!” George exclaimed, a tad too loudly.

“Shhh!” Paul replied with big eyes, seeing Neil next to him send them a curious look. 

“Sorry. Seriously?” George repeated, lower.

“No. I mean, yes, seriously. Now shut up.”

George mocked him quietly, although there was no meanness in it at all.

“Anyway, I just wanted to say that if you do get back together, well… Like, you can cuddle, you know. Or whatever. If you want. I’m not gonna be shocked or anything. Just because you’ve become gay doesn’t mean I’ve become an arsehole,” He drawled out, as if Paul had not just told him to shut up.

Beyond the slurring of his drunken words, Paul could hear genuine solicitude and he felt at once a bit warmer. His tight smile turned more natural and George seemed to notice it because when he leant back on his chair, he was grinning too – a bit smug, even. Paul turned his attention to the others and was almost… surprised to notice that they were behaving perfectly normally. The girls had changed seats and were laughing together, and Ringo was laughing at whatever Alistair and Neil were telling him. When he felt Paul’s gaze on him, he offered him a kind smile and Paul had to admit he felt touched. It was stupid really, but he had the acute sensation that he wasn’t so alone anymore. 

Suddenly, John got up from his chair which scraped the floor, and everybody’s attention turned to him. 

“Let’s play a bit, shall we?”

As soon as the clipped words had left his mouth he went back into the house, letting everyone a bit baffled behind. Alistair, Neil, Pattie, Mal and Maureen’s gazes automatically turned to Paul and Paul keenly felt their weight. As if they expected him to be able to explain John’s sudden and strange behaviour. It was weird to suddenly become the go-to in everything that concerned John, but Paul guessed it was fair. Especially since it had already kind of been the case, even before. But at the moment, all he could offer was an awkward half-shrug and flushed cheeks.

“What’s gotten into him?” Alistair directly asked Paul.

“Is he… coming back…?” Maureen echoed more quietly, although at least she was half looking at Cynthia and not at Paul.

The glass doors squeaked again and all of a sudden John was back with a guitar in each hand. He approached the couch and basically shoved one of them into Paul’s arms. Paul took it and noticed straight away that it was his. It was nothing but it still felt like it meant something to Paul. Whatever that something was. 

John went back to his chair, sitting cross-legged on it. 

“What are you playing us, then?” Mal questioned.

John looked up from his guitar, his gaze floating somewhere in the void for a moment, until he lifted it and met Paul’s eyes straight on. There was a glint of mischief and complicity there that Paul had not witnessed in a very long while. 

“Something you don’t know yet,” He cryptically answered.

He kept staring at Paul, and Paul could feel the confused eyes of the others ping-ponging between the two of them. It finally dawned on him that John expected Paul to start playing something, and for a few seconds he was completely out of his depth. It was a feeling he was not used to, but one that could be easily explained by the rollercoaster of emotions he had been through during the evening. When John raised his eyebrows at him in a little encouraging gesture, Paul tried to compose himself and reflected on what song would be the best pick. A song the others didn’t know yet. They had written a few together they had not recorded yet, but none of them felt especially relevant at the moment…

An image came back to him, crawling back from the deepest corner of his memories. One that dated from months before, when it was still winter. John and he had been in Paul’s bedroom after a session that had gone long into the night, and Paul remembered feeling positively exhausted. He had had one future song stuck in his head the whole way home, for a reason he could not remember. That specific song often came to him since he had travelled back in time, and during that period it was his more frequent earworm. He felt emotionally connected to it, to its lyrics, in more ways than ever before, but he had never dared to play it. The lyrics felt too relevant. Too real. Too on the nose, almost.

But as they had gotten into bed, for some reason, seeing John settle under the covers in his own flat had made him want to try. So he had picked up his guitar and had strived to find an arrangement to play the song, get it out of his head. He could see the moment clear as day in his mind, now: John buried into the blanket, in his pair of pyjamas that always stayed at Paul’s, looking up at him all soft and attentive, definitely a bit sleepy; listening to the song Paul was trying to recreate. 

‘_It’s heavy, that one_,’ he had quietly told Paul when the song had come to an end. He had sounded strangely far, as if lost in an emotion Paul could not quite understand. Also a bit… distant. Pondering. When Paul had apologized and said he could go for a happier tune, John had quickly interrupted him. ‘_No, no. It’s fine. Just… come here_.” There was something off in his expression, but Paul had obeyed nevertheless; he had put his guitar aside, got into bed and snuggled up into John’s arms without another word. It had seemed like John had held on to him tighter that night, but Paul could really not tell if it was real or just his imagination. He had just fallen asleep and then had practically forgotten all about it. They had never talked about the song since. He had never even hummed it to himself after that. He could not really tell why. 

His fingers working on their own, Paul started the song. He didn’t know why he wanted to play it, even less knowing the lukewarm reaction it had provoked the first time around. He was not sure it was ethically the right move to make (he abhorred taking credit for anything that wasn’t his, or his and John) but some instinctual part of him knew it was the right choice. And the others would probably not remember the song at all when it would actually be published, around 40 years later from now. His playing was awkward, and not quite exactly right, but from the first few notes the theme was there. Everyone fell into a deeply attentive silence, the chords that Paul’s fingers plucked resonating with some distant crickets for sole company. He readjusted his guitar on his lap and with a clear but somewhat unsteady voice, he started to sing the words. He was surprised to hear himself sound softer but also fiercer than he had probably ever had.

“_My body is a cage… that keeps me from dancing with the one I love, but my mind holds the key._”

He kept his eyes firmly glued to his fingers, trying to adapt the rich melody to a simple acoustic guitar. But when he repeated the first sentence and looked up in front of him, it was a miracle he managed to keep singing.

The look on John’s face was like a punch to the gut. His eyes were boring into Paul’s with such intensity that Paul was convinced in that moment he was able to read into his soul. They were dark, and wide, shining with an awe Paul had rarely witnessed from him. His cheeks were rosy, his lips were gaping the slightest bit, and his falling jaw proved he had totally lost control of his usually guarded expression. He looked profoundly moved, and a bit surprised, but it was mostly the dawning understanding that Paul could perceive there that shocked him to the core. That was when Paul realized his mistake. Back then, when he had sung it, it was not as an old man stuck in his younger body, yearning after his life left behind. It could have been that, at first, but the night he had played it to John, it wasn’t. But John… John couldn’t know that. Insecure John, questioning John. The John who had known abandonment after abandonment and couldn’t shake off the idea that it was bound to happen again. The one convinced he was Paul’s default choice all along. The awakening pouring out of John’s expression was unequivocal: he had never believed for _a second_ the song could be addressed to him. 

But this time was different. This time he got it.

“_I’m standing on a stage… of fear and self-doubt. It’s a hollow play, but they’ll clap anyway…_”

In a last glance, Paul could see John’s fingers trembling when he repositioned his guitar too and started accompanying him as best as he could. 

“_I'm living in an age that calls darkness light, though my language is dead, still the shapes fill my head. I'm living in an age whose name I don't know, though the fear keeps me moving, still my heart beats so slow…_”

They were not playing very well, either of them: Paul because he was too choked up, and John because he had barely heard the song once, months before. Paul slowed his playing after the instrumental part, decided to finish the song no matter what. The others were deadly silent next to him but even if they had been making noise he was not sure the information would have managed to infiltrate the shield around him that was John. He didn’t need to be looking at him to feel his encompassing presence.

“_My body is a cage. We take what we're given: just because you've forgotten, that don't mean you're forgiven. I'm living in an age that screams my name at night, but when I get to the doorway, there's no one in sight…_”

He looked up again, and lost track of the lyrics a bit. John was staring straight back at him again, and his eyes were suspiciously shinier – if that was even possible. Paul carried on thoughtlessly, his gaze zoomed in on John and not really caring if he was still following the course of the original song or not. 

“_You're standing next to me. My mind holds the key. Set my spirit free… set my, spirit free… Set my body free…_”

The song came to an end, eventually, even though Paul was floating miles above the whole terrace. The only real thing was John’s face, his eyes, and the epiphany on his expression that was only reinforced by the lingering melody and the quiet of the Maltese night. Paul let his fingers rest against his guitar, a tiny smile tugging at his lips. 

“Wow. That was… a bit depressing.”

Paul blinked and turned to Neil, who was looking at him with lightly frowning eyebrows and an almost sad tilt of his mouth. Just like that the spell was broken, and Paul realized the others were still there – that they had been there the whole time he had been _serenading_ to John. Basically. By reflex more than anything, he let out a small chuckle, pushing the guitar off of his lap. 

“Yeah, you lot seemed too cheerful, that couldn’t do,” He retorted easily.

Neil snorted. Paul tried not to look at John, knowing he wouldn’t be able to stop looking at him, and just wiped his hands on his shorts. Just thinking about John’s reaction to the song, and to the whole night, made him sweaty, and he didn’t want to see it yet. John had deemed him bold to assume he was still in love with him. Paul was pretty sure he still was – at least a little bit, right? – but maybe he would get mad to have Paul being all flirty and trying to get him back. He had said he needed time. Serenading him five minutes later, even if the song was not Valentine’s day-like romantic, did not exactly fall into the ‘giving time’ area. Maybe John would get irritated about it. Maybe it would make things even worse. Their earlier conversation had gone alright, but that had been almost in the heat of the action. Perhaps John would not be so accepting in the light of day. 

“It’s a beautiful one,” Pattie chimed in, Maureen and Mal nodding along. “Have you recorded it?”

Paul caught Ringo snorting discreetly from the corner of his eye and for a second he had to fight off a smile.

“Hum no, not that one. It’s a one-time performance for the lovely Maltese crowd gathered here,” He explained with a little upper-body bow.

“You’re gonna have to wait a while to hear it again,” John wittingly added – the _bastard_. 

Paul glanced at him and couldn’t hold his amused smile. John was smiling back, shiny-eyed, rosy-cheeked and all toothy.

Maybe they were going to be alright.

The next day, Paul was carefully optimistic. 

When he had bumped into Ringo right on the his way to his morning pee, his friend, just like George, had asked him if the previous night meant John and he had got back together – and like George, had been disappointed to learn that it didn’t. He congratulated Paul on being brave for coming out though, and it left Paul feeling all warm and loved. As the day advanced, he was also hugely relieved to see that the others were not behaving any differently with him. They did glance at him every time John entered the same room or started speaking, which was infinitesimally annoying after a while, but other than that they were… chill, as his grandkids used to say. They did not make any insisting jokes, nor did they look particularly embarrassed or disgusted. They did not comment on the fact that John and Paul barely hung out, or that they didn’t sit together at dinner, or room together. It was almost weird to imagine that for them it was normal to have what they thought was a couple act so platonically and distant to each other, but at least they respected their privacy. They accepted them. He knew his friends were good people, but it was still nice to have the concrete proof of it.

The weather being scorching that day, they had all decided to make it a lazy one. The ladies had left on a trip to a nearby aquarium with Julian and Paula in the morning. Everyone else was just doing their own business, and Paul spent so much time lounging in a chair next to the pool that his skin was starting to grow pink and sensitive in the tenderer spots. Mal was lying next to him, and it was nice to be able to just aimlessly chat with eyes closed, worries a thousand miles away. With a free consciousness. Practically at their feet, Neil and George were idly floating in the pool on inflatable buoys, their laughter coming up once in a while, generally followed by wild splashes of water. 

When someone came out of the house and stopped to stand right next to his lounging chair, Paul did not bother to open his eyes, although he had an instinctive hunch about who it was. His body just _knew_.

“You look like a ham.”

Paul cracked an eye open, squinting because of the sun. John was squinting back at him, his body throwing shade on Paul’s torso. He was just in his swimming trucks, his tummy and pectorals highly distracting, and was not wearing his glasses. It briefly connected in Paul’s brain that this time, he hadn’t gone with his son. Even if his brain was not quite sure what to do with the information. 

Mal chuckled next to them, but Paul kept his eyes on John. 

“Yeah, I can feel I’m getting all smoked,” He replied with a grin, happy to see it reverberating on John’s face.

“Ready to serve on a plate,” John tacked on right away, his grin growing wolfish. 

“If this is a weird way of saying you want to screw each other’s brains out, please remember you are not alone in the room,” Neil’s voice suddenly interrupted them. 

“In the pool,” George corrected, looking at them upside down from his rotating buoy.

“And in the garden, too, actually,” Mal appended with another chuckle. 

“Or at least make us drink first,” George drawled again, his buoy bumping against the border of the pool and slowly floating away. 

Paul glanced at him with a grin, his ears getting hotter, but then John laughed with his full belly-laugh that made him throw his head back, and Paul was a weak man. As if called in by their noise and laughter, Ringo appeared on the other side of John, his hair all rumpled from having apparently napped on it. He was wearing a t-shirt but he had his swimming trucks on too.

“What are you lads doing?” He asked amiably, rubbing some sleep out of his eye.

“Just stopping the lovebirds from trying to fornicate in our presence,” Mal supplied. 

“Oh sod off you giant—teddy bear, ecclesiastic,” John laughed, followed by the others.

Paul was so giddy and relieved to see John react so easily, so openly to their teasing that he stopped himself from adding anything that could alter even the tiniest bit the mood he was in at that exact moment. Even more exhilarating was the fact that he had _not denied_ it.

“Since you’re up Ring, should we play a game? Like some water-polo or something?” Neil proposed, pushing himself off of his buoy and swimming a bit to come and rest his elbows on the border. “We can call up Alistair, wherever he is.”

“I think he’s on the phone,” John supplied.

“Because you think _you’re_ strong enough to play water-polo? Do you even know the upper-body strength that requires?” Paul snorted, squinting even harder at Neil. 

Suddenly there was shade on his face, and when he blinked towards John he saw the other man had moved one step to the left. He was not looking at Paul, but his fidgeting fingers confirmed to Paul it was not a coincidence. His heart swelling up, Paul turned quickly back to Neil, who was actually shrugging and looking at the water around it. 

“I don’t know, there’s not much depth. ‘S even a bit boring.”

For a split second, Paul felt watched and he quickly glanced up at John – the other man was fixedly looking at Neil, but Paul was almost sure he had seen his head move.

“Yeah, we can touch bottom everywhere,” George confirmed from his ever-rotating buoy. 

“Why not,” Mal yawned, stretching into sitting up on his lounging chair. “I’ll end up getting some accidental kip if I don’t move.”

“I’m up for it,” Ringo shrugged. 

“Yeah, me too,” John said – and he was looking expectantly at Paul, as if awaiting his answer specifically.

Paul tried to file that information away, his body growing a bit too hot under the attention. The fact that John was all sun-soaked skin and freckles did not help at all. He cleared his throat and turned back to the swimming boys.

“Sure.”

John went back into the house to retrieve one of Julian’s plastic balls, a big thing with red and white stripes. It only took a few minutes for Mal, John, Ringo and Paul to get ready and enter the pool, vividly encouraged (a.k.a. harassed) by the other two to hurry up. The water was actually chillier than Paul had expected, but it was more than welcome for his heated skin. From the corner of his eye he could see John holding a shiver in, and smiled to himself. John was the kind of person to complain about the water being too cold even when it was at 25°. 

“Ok, so I’m with Mal,” George stated straight away as he was throwing the two buoys away on the grass. 

“Me too!” John cried, raising his hand like an overeager kid at school. 

Next to the ladder, Ringo was throwing water on his own shoulders to get used to the temperature. 

“That’s not fair, I wanna be with Mal too!” He complained with a pout. “He’s the tallest.”

“Well you should have reacted faster, son. Law of the jungle.”

Ringo splashed John in retaliation just as Alistair was coming out of the house. He was fully dressed and was wearing a fedora. 

“I guess teams are made, then,” Paul stated with a dramatically sombre face and sharing a look with a shrugging Neil.

“Hey Al. Nice hat,” George noted with a raised eyebrow. 

The others turned around to stare at Alistair, who blushed a bit under the sudden attention. He went to sit cross-legged next to the pool (but far enough to get ‘accidentally’ splashed), showing no intention to join them.

“Thanks. What are you playing?” 

“Classic water-polo!” Neil claimed with a toothy smile.

“As if you knew the real rules,” John snorted – and when Paul giggled at that, he shot him a happy grin.

“Wanna play? We can switch players if you want,” Ringo proposed, ever so considerate.

But Alistair merely grimaced. He was wearing long-sleeves and long pants, and now that he came to think of it Paul was not sure he had ever seen him close to a body of water of any kind.

“I’m good. I can be your referee.”

Putting little heaps of clothes on either side of the pool to mark the cages, they all split up into the two teams. If for the others the choice of Mal as the goal was an obvious one, it was not as easy on Paul’s team, and it took a few minutes on particularly – and ridiculously – heated arguing for them to finally decide to have Paul as goal too. Choice that seemed ludicrous to Paul seeing how fast he was compared to Neil, but he figured he might as well make sacrifices for the good of the community. 

With a go from Alistair, they started playing. It was absolute chaos from the start: George was surprisingly competitive and didn’t care if others drowned in his path, John was a colossal cheater and Mal was… actually very, very bad. As if his height and general bulkiness were a brake in his movements, he was always a tad too slow and uncoordinated, and despite George and John’s best efforts, Paul’s team quickly got the upper hand. Ringo and Neil were rather good players: they worked efficiently together because they managed to actually communicate, spurred on by Paul’s coaching. Paul was elated about their advance – he _hated_ losing – but one of the side effects was that George and John’s playing was getting dirtier by the minute. 

They were at the climax of the game, and the combativeness was at its highest degree when things took quite an interesting turn. George and John had been in Paul’s corner for a while, tripping Ringo and Neil at every occasion they found. Water was flying everywhere, they had lost Alistair to a laughing fit a moment ago already, and Paul was doing his best to help his teammates without leaving his makeshift cage for too long. He was actually getting a bit tired after all that splashing around: his limbs were heavy and his lungs lacked a bit of air, but his cheeks were aching from all the laughing so he still considered it a win. At some point John caught the ball from Ringo’s hands and pushed him under water in the process. Paul then saw him coming straight to him, and the mischievous glint in his eyes confirmed to Paul this could not end well. Neil tried to jump in between them but was immediately blocked by George (while Ringo was still sputtering water on the side). In seconds John was right there, in his personal space, right in his freaking face even. He had his arm up with the ball in his hand, and logistically speaking he was _way too close_ to have any chance to actually score the goal but, there he was, crowding in on Paul with shining eyes and a wicked smile that got Paul weak in the knees. Paul sprung, ready to block the ball, and grabbed John’s bicep to stop him when suddenly Ringo came back from his dying and took the ball right off from John’s hand and took off with it in the opposite direction, followed straight away by Neil and George. 

What happened though, was that Paul did not let go of John’s arm. They both touched bottom, with water coming up to their armpits (they were on the shallower part of the pool, which George had loudly pointed out as being an unfair advantage). Their breathing was laboured and Paul could feel the little puffs from John’s mouth coming onto his face; John was glistening wet, with hair plastered on his forehead and cheeks red from the continuous effort. He slowly (or maybe it took a millisecond – Paul would not be able to tell) lowered his arm and his hand came to hover next to Paul’s cheek, not quite touching but close enough that Paul could feel its heat. They were staring at each other, way too intensely for a game of simile water-polo, so Paul splashed a few droplets from his fingers onto John’s face and John’s gasping turned into a fully blown smile. When he felt John’s other hand brush his side under water, Paul’s brain short-circuited a bit. Was that on purpose?! What was happening?! By reflex, Paul found himself squeezing John’s bicep in return, his eyes raking over John’s open face, feeling himself breathing loudly and smiling like a lunatic. But then he caught John’s eyes fluttering down to his lips, and he was gaping and leaning in the tiniest bit so naturally Paul was too and oh God was he—

“Uh… lads…?”

They both startled so hard that in a second Paul was plastered against the border of the pool and John was half-diving under water. Paul turned his attention to the boys, at the other end of the pool, who were looking back at them with wide eyes and embarrassed expressions. When he glanced at Alistair, he saw the NEMS employee half-hiding his face into his arms crossed over his bent knees, and diverting his gaze straight away.

“Sorry, I… didn’t mean to spook you, but… we just, you know…” Mal went on, his whole face redder than a tomato.

“We, uh… scored a goal. Yay!” Ringo cheerfully added, trying and failing to break the awkward atmosphere.

“Yeah, which you missed because you were too busy snogging in your corner.” George deadpanned. Then, when Neil elbowed him, he whispered to him: “What?!”

“We weren’t snogging,” Paul immediately refuted – and he sounded so much like a schoolboy caught red-handed that he cringed at himself.

He couldn’t help but to look at John and was sort of relieved to see him just shaking his head to confirm, his whole body under water with just his face down to his nose poking out from it. So, everyone was embarrassed. Great.

“Right,” Ringo cleared his voice.

With awkwardness still lingering in the air, they carried on with the game – which Paul’s team easily crushed after almost an hour of ruthless playing. He did not meet John’s eye even once for the remaining of the game, and it was easy to tell they were both acutely self-aware of any physical contact they may or may not share. When they finally all exited the pool, Paul dried his hair with a towel and he could feel John’s burning gaze on him. But he did his best not to indulge himself and stare back at him. They were not alone and they were not back together. They were _not_ back together. John had not actually done anything, and it was very likely wishful thinking from Paul to think he had been leaning in. This was nothing.

Time, he’d said. He needed time, and Paul was ready to give him as much time as he wanted. This was way too important.

The rest of their holiday showed a clear shift in atmosphere for seemingly everyone. Paul, for one, felt lighter. And on numerous occasions he felt awkward and a bit ashamed because it was clear their friends did not all know how to take in the new information about their sexuality, and more especially their relationship. As a result they were often embarrassed when there were no reasons to be. 

For instance, one morning John and Paul were the first ones ready and waiting outside to go on a trip and when Alistair had come out of the house and seen them he had turned beet red and gone straight back inside, even though John and Paul were not even talking nor close to each other. For Alistair, it was mainly this: wide eyes and a lot of blushing. Another day, Paula had innocently pointed out two men wearing matching clothes in the city and wondered aloud if they were brothers (they clearly weren’t) and Maureen had immediately and quite loudly diverted everyone’s attention to a random building; in those days she was quieter than usual, more guarded, but still sincerely nice to Paul. Mal seemed to have a hard time with it too. He was just as lovely as ever, and Paul knew he had no real problem with it, but he was so painfully embarrassed and self-conscious about it that it made Paul himself cringe too. Pattie had obviously been filled in by George before, so she didn’t look shocked, but Paul did catch her observing eyes on him every time he so happened to be near John. Neil on the other side was surprisingly cool with it, even if he was _so_ cool with it that it had the opposite effect; he wanted so much to show how supportive he was and how much it didn’t change his affection for both of them that he kept putting his foot in his mouth. The sentiment was sweet, and Paul truly appreciated it, but it did give him second-hand embarrassment quite often. Neil would loudly claim he still didn’t mind getting into his swim trucks in front of them, thus precisely driving attention to the fact that he _could_ be weirded out by it now. Or he would fall over himself apologizing when a queer-related slur slipped from him sometimes – the apologies then cutting the conversation short most of the time and leaving everyone else feel a bit awkward, not knowing how to make it go back (in these times, it was often John himself who managed to find a witty word to stop everyone from being a bit weirded out, and Paul silently blessed him more than once). Paul would have never held any of it against Neil, or any of them for that matter; hell, this was 1967, and they were born and raised in working-class Liverpool. He perfectly knew potentially offensive habits could not be wiped out in a second when they were so ingrained in all of them since their early childhood. However, the fact that they all took it to heart not to offense them and to make them feel welcomed and still appreciated meant a lot to him. They were being silent about it, and cautious, but they were not rejecting him at all. And if they still found weird that Paul and John spent so little time together, or that they were not rooming together, nobody said anything and Paul had to admit he was kind of relieved not to have to explain everything.

In the end, only George, Ringo and Cynthia’s behaviour did not change one bit. If anything, his bandmates were more joyful, and it was obvious they were not walking on egg shells anymore. Ringo confessed to Paul one night that he was happy to see Paul and John being comfortable with each other again, and for them to be able to just _be_ freely around them. It had gotten Paul to think like mad, because at first he had not noticed anything different between John and him, except for the Pool Incident. But then, when he stopped to really look at it, he could see what Ringo meant. 

They still did not really talk more, and they did not really spend more time together either. John still generally chose the day activity that did not imply Paul. They did not sit together when they all ate, nor did they sit next to each other in other circumstances when they had the choice not to. But John’s eyes were softer when they were looking at Paul; his smile tenderer. They could talk together without it being weird or stilted, and even laughed easily together when they were in a group. More than once Paul felt the burning weight of his gaze on him, and it flattered his ego to notice it was especially true when they were at the pool or at the sea. The changes were subtle, and slow, but still present. Paul still missed his friend an insane amount, but at least John looked relatively alright and things were getting better between them. He held on to the ‘time’ John had asked from him like a drowning man to a straw.

His last night in Malta, Paul was thus feeling relatively at peace. It had been a nice holiday, and he had genuinely enjoyed it; there had been no talks about owning an island this time, but it didn’t mean all of them were less tight. On the contrary, it felt to Paul like they were on maybe healthier grounds. Perhaps he was only feeling that way because he was older now and had more wisdom, or at least more hindsight. Or perhaps because this time he didn’t smoke weed and he… remembered things, more. George, Pattie and her sister were leaving the next day too, but John and the others were staying a bit longer. It pained Paul to know that for a few days there would be thousands of kilometres between him and John, and he chastised himself for it because there was nothing he could do or was entitled to do about it anyway. But he sure was going to miss the hell out of John. Even if they were not close anymore, seeing his face and hearing his laugh still were causing his belly to erupt in warmth and butterflies.

It was pretty dark already when he decided to go out for a walk, feeling a bit claustrophobic in the humid house. He closed the glass doors behind him and breathed deeply, regretting not to have taken Martha along with him on the trip – he really missed the fluff ball and she was always the best companion for late walks. He was leaving the residency and heading to the path that led to the beach when a loud voice surprised him.

“Be careful, you might get abducted if you venture out too far.”

Paul froze and turned to the voice. John was sitting cross-legged on a rock near a bunch of pine trees, a few meters away. There was a cigarette in his hand and smoke billowing above him, but it was too dark for Paul to discern his expression. Paul automatically smiled and, for some unfathomable reason, blushed. Good thing it was night, after all.

“Don’t worry, I’m a big boy,” He countered easily.

John made a noise that Paul could not quite make out. After a moment of silence and awkward standing, Paul resumed his walk. He didn’t want to push things. But he had not made three steps that John was speaking again, this time much quieter.

“Care if I join you?”

Fireworks exploded in his belly again and Paul found himself furiously nodding. Then, realizing John might not see him well:

“Sure. Come along. The more the merrier.”

John didn’t answer but carefully put out his cigarette on the rock, dropped the butt of it in his pocket (and Paul was thrilled to notice all his nagging about not letting butts into the wild had ended up working) and got up to join him. 

They walked silently for a long moment, going down to the rocky shore on a tacit understanding. Once his eyes adapted to the darkness, Paul was glad to see it was a rather clear night, and they were less susceptible to fall to their death with every step. John was too far for their hands to ‘accidentally’ brush, but it was nice nonetheless to feel his presence alongside him, to hear his steps, his breathing. His breathing was the most relaxing sound in the world to Paul.

They finally reached the beach and Paul just stopped walking, breathing in the smell of the sea. He bent over to take off his shoes, John’s stopping next to him. The sand was deliciously cold and Paul savoured how his overheated feet dipped in it. He looked at John and saw him taking his shoes off too, still in silence, so he just sat down in the sand – or rather let himself drop on it with a loud sigh, which earned him a short giggle from John. His heart leaped at the sound. 

“You’re so dramatic,” John noted as he followed his lead and sat on the sand.

“I live for the dramatics,” Paul confirmed with a smile.

They could hear the waves ebbing and flowing calmly a bit ahead, and John’s face was relaxed when Paul turned to him. He looked back at Paul with a grin tugging at his lips.

“You missed your call. You should have gone to RADA.”

“I have,” Paul retorted with a very serious face. “I’ve been acting all along. I’m actually an Australian firefighter.”

John took his shoes to put them in front of him and started aimlessly filling them with sand.

“If you wanted me to believe you you should have picked a more plausible career,” He told Paul, not looking at him. “Seeing how you reacted last time I slightly burnt eggs in your flat.”

Paul gasped in mock outrage and poked John’s shoulder.

“I put the fire out!”

John snorted.

“There was no fire.”

“Yes! Because I put it out!”

“…with the tablecloth,” John deadpanned as he turned to him. “And our whole breakfast on it.”

“Well sorry for saving your life, _arsehole_.”

“You sure didn’t save my eggs.”

Paul pushed him again, harder this time, and John fell aside into the sand with a loud laugh. Paul was grinning so hard just from looking at it that his cheeks were almost painful. He couldn’t quite believe what was happening at the moment: John and him, just talking and joking together. No pressure, no tears, no lies. Just two friends – well, at least that – enjoying… Whatever _this_ was. He didn’t know why John was suddenly quitting his silence to spend time with him, but he sure as hell wasn’t complaining. It dawned on him he couldn’t even remember the last time he had been alone with John and felt so comfortable. Just being, and laughing. 

“You’re a real funny lad, you know that?” He told John, observing his profile in the moonlight.

John snorted, going back to his shoe-filling activity.

“You’re such an arse-kisser.”

“Arse-smoocher,” Paul replied with a devilish grin.

John turned to him and grinned.

“Arse-licker.”

“Actually, your arse is the only one I’ve ever been interested in licking to be completely honest.”

John froze and ever so slowly raised his eyebrows, his amused grin growing even wider.

“Jesus Christ. Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?!” He asked with a posh accent.

Paul laughed, joy blossoming in his chest and warming his soul. Out of everyone he had ever met, John was the only one allowed to make jokes about his mum, even crude ones. Because John knew.

“My mother’s a sailor, son,” Paul replied with a fake drunken voice.

“So you’re a child of the sea, I see.”

“Aye. A real bloody oyster.”

John grinned and tried to keep it in for a moment, until he just burst out in ugly laughter. He looked splendid and Paul felt himself grin along.

“I had missed this,” He finally said when he calmed down a bit, wiping the corner of his eye.

“What? Me swearing?” Paul chuckled.

“You being friends with me. Just… ‘Friendship’,” He air-quoted. “I’ve missed it.”

Paul’s laughter died in his throat and he sobered up at once.

“I’m sor—” He started.

“No, don’t be!” John cut him off urgently. “It’s not you. I mean, not only. I wasn’t...” He stopped, took a sharp intake of breath. “Look, I’m sorry too. For a lot of things.”

Paul simply kept on watching him. The moment felt fragile, out of time. One wrong word and John could scatter away like a scared rabbit. He was looking at his jittery hands and worrying his lip. He looked nervous, or maybe ashamed, and Paul did not like it one bit. He was about to reassure him, tell him they didn’t have to go into that – what could John possibly be sorry for when it was Paul who had behaved like a knobhead all along? – but John beat him to it when he said, in a surprisingly blunt voice:

“I knew you were scared.”

Paul felt himself gaping; out of all the things he could have expected, this was not one of them.

“I knew it,” John went on. “I saw it gnawing at you. I knew I could just show you that you were not alone and, and tell you that things would turn out alright. But I didn’t… do, anything. I just wanted you to not be scared. Like, just for you to magically stop being scared. I was so stubborn and angry that… So instead of trying to talk to you I just. I tried at first, I did but it was only getting worse and I was too… fucking selfish so I just got mad at you. It was easier.”

Paul remained silent, not quite knowing how to answer to that. He was surprised and did not think John’s criticism towards himself were fair or legitimate. But John looked open, and earnest, and Paul had no intention to be dismissive again. So he tried to hear his arguments with more recognition and receptiveness.

“I didn’t notice you were mad,” He replied quietly.

“Well, sorry to burst your bubble but you’re not that observant,” John retorted with a heat that did not quite match the pained expression on his face. “Although… I admit you are better now than you used to be.”

He took a breath, looked around them in a clear attempt to avoid Paul’s searching eyes.

“I saw that you needed to be reassured, but I wanted you to reassure _me_. I wanted you to take care of _me_. And for you to just snap out of it on your own. I thought… I don’t know, I thought you ought to do better than that. Or to be better since, you know, you are older now and you’re supposed to be wiser and all.” 

He paused, looking down at his own fidgeting finger. When he spoke next, his voice was both hard and trembling with guilt. 

“I was angry at you for disappointing me. And the more things were getting obviously worse for you the more… the more I resented you for it and the more I pushed you. As if… I don’t know, just knowing you struggled to do things like, like tell our friends, or just… I don’t know, just act couple-y with me anywhere that was not your flat, the more I wanted you to do it. I mean, it’s like I saw how embarrassed you were in front of Brian for example, but… you know, I still wanted to push your buttons and make you even more embarrassed because I precisely didn’t want you to be embarrassed, if that makes sense…? And it’s stupid because I perfectly knew it wouldn’t work, that pushing you has never worked with anything, but I was so angry at you for being w—vulnerable, and I hated myself so much for being a selfish prick that I pushed and pushed. I pushed you until we both exploded and I was morbidly enjoying it because it proved that I was right.”

He paused again, and Paul struggled to keep a neutral face in front of the harsh words, his heart beating loud in his ears and his stomach twisting with embarrassment. He could tell from John’s tone that he knew he was being harsh, he knew the words were hurtful, but it was also clear to them both that this was an ugly truth that needed to be told. The both of them keeping the way they felt to themselves had been the very reason why they had fallen out so brutally, _twice_ now, and Paul did not want that to happen ever again, his own pride be damned. Secrets had nearly destroyed them and straightening things out felt like a necessary step. Unavoidable even, if they wanted a new start. And Paul could only hope this new sincerity between them proved a new start was becoming more and more possible now.

“I didn’t…” John went on, still not looking at Paul even though Paul knew he was hyper aware of everything around them both at the moment. “I thought you were scared of me finding out you didn’t love me, or something like that. And it was easier to think this was something you had chosen, as if… I’m… as if you were choosing to be terrified like that, like a rabbit in deadlights. It’s not that I didn’t care, but I just didn’t _want_ to see you be scared. I’m not used to it. I don’t like it.”

“I don’t like it either,” Paul joked sadly, his voice coming out a bit hoarse.

“I bet,” John breathed out with a quick side glance. “I’m sorry. I was such a wanker. You can be a proper dick when you want, but I am way worse. I… honestly in your place I would have lied to me too. I fucking deserved it.”

Paul briskly sat up and immediately reached a hand out on John’s arm, his eyebrows frowning.

“Wow John, no! No, don’t ever think that. I should have never, _never_ lied to you. Absolutely nothing excuses it, and you never deserved any of the shit I put you through. You’re… you’re so fucking great, mate. And I’m… I don’t know if I’m still allowed to say that but, but I love you a real fucking lot so don’t you dare bad-mouthing yourself in front of me. Or at all, for that matter.”

John turned his head to him, a frown on his face and his eyes quickly scanning Paul’s face. The little light the moon provided them allowed Paul to notice he looked particularly wary.

“…You really do?” He finally asked. “Seriously?”

There was so much disbelief in his voice, almost a hint of provocation, that Paul restrained himself from taking him by the shoulders and shaking him to make him stop being a bloody idiot. As if he hadn’t proclaimed his love in front of _all of their friends_ a few days prior. He couldn’t help the frustrated breath that escaped out of him.

“_Yes!_” He cried out, raising his hands in disbelief. “Yes, I do, I bloody do! And not in a ‘I love you, mate’ way, although I do and you are my mate, but in a ‘I’m head over heels for you… twat’… way!”

John frowned harder.

“Why do you have to insult me too?!”

“Shut up. I’m trying to make a point here,” Paul countered, frowning too now. “I understand why it’s hard for you to trust me but I have never lied to you about my feelings. Never. So get that into your thick head once and for all. I’m in love with you, and you don’t get a say in it. And that’s it.”

John observed him quietly. His pupils were fully dilated in the dark, and his lips slightly gaping. If he wasn’t so annoyed with him, Paul would be straining not to kiss him. Then, after the longest moment, he simply said:

“Huh.”

They let silence settle between them then, and Paul used it to wish his annoyance away. He knew John was insecure – it was hardly news – but he couldn’t help but be bothered to see that after all this time, after all the love declarations he had made, John _still_ didn’t believe he actually loved him. However, when the last remnants of frustration had disappeared, only heartache remained. He looked over at John again, at his long fingers and sand-filled shoes, and wondered if he would ever be able to make him see how amazing he was. He sure wanted to try.

“When are you leaving, then?” He asked much more softly, trying to break the suddenly sad atmosphere they had created.

“On Monday. I need to call Brian when I’m home, he has been trying to get me to ‘talk’ several times before we left. But I really wasn’t in the mood.”

At the mention of Brian, Paul’s brain froze. Monday would be the 31st of July. And in August… Anxiety woke up in his stomach again, crawling up his throat. He felt like he had not done enough to stop fate from happening, and the idea that _it_ might happen again made him want to throw up. There was one thing he hadn’t done though, he realized as he glanced at John who was idly emptying his shoes only to start filling them again. Understanding what he needed to do, Paul breathed deeply and dragged his hands over his suddenly very tired face. 

“About that… Look, I need to tell you something,” He started.

John’s head snapped to him again, a deep frown coming back on his forehead.

“What? Did you cheat on me with him?”

Paul gaped for a second, then successively frowned and squinted at him.

“No! Wait—what?! That’s… No. Just no. Jesus. No, I meant, there’s something you should know about Brian. You know, about what happened in my past.”

John looked at him for a moment, worry taking over his features.

“You’re scaring me,” He confessed quietly.

Paul sighed again, trying to come up with the right words.

“He… overdosed, the first time. On barbiturates. And it was in August 1967.”

He could not hold John’s steady gaze so he just watched the sea shining under the moonlight instead, knitting his fingers together to keep them from trembling. He could hear John’s breathing had quickened.

“Really…?” He asked in a breath.

Paul nodded and bit his lip, still staring straight ahead.

“I tried… I wanted to prove to him that we still needed him, even without touring, because. You know. People said afterwards that he was depressed, and that he felt useless, things like that. But I don’t think I’ve done a good job at it and if it happens again I don’t know how I’ll—”

He had to cut himself off, his voice getting too chocked up, and immediately John’s hand landed on his and gripped him tightly.

“Is he—” John started and his voice was strangled too. “Does he look as bad as he did back then?”

But Paul shook his head. He was not sure he knew anything anymore, and memories of Brian in the weeks leading up to his death seemed to get all blurry and mushed together. Weed was probably not innocent in that.

“I can’t tell,” He admitted, glancing at John and then straight back at the sea when he caught a glance of the fear and sadness in his eyes. “Really, I…”

He inspired deeply, then released another wavering sigh.

“I mean, the big difference here is that back then I hadn’t nearly overdosed myself, you know? And he looked proper scared when I woke up in the hospital. So I’m hoping it’ll have gotten him thinking, you know?”

He saw John nodding from the corner of his eyes, his fingers moving slightly up on Paul’s wrist and settling there. The warm contact was comforting. Anchoring. 

“What can I do?” John asked, point blank.

Paul raised a helpless hand to the sea, letting it drop again. His shoulders sagged with it.

“I mean, I don’t know. Look out for him, I guess? I don’t… I don’t even know why I’m putting this on you too, actually. It’s just… more _pain_.”

“I’m glad you are,” John countered, his voice firmer. “You shouldn’t bear that alone. You know, you and Ring.”

“I don’t… I can’t watch him die again,” Paul said, his voice cracking on the words.

“He won’t. Paul—Paul, look at me.”

Literally dragging his eyes from the sea, Paul finally did turn his head and look at John. He couldn’t see much, but just enough to notice the fierceness and purpose on John’s face.

“He won’t die,” John repeated – and he sounded so confident it was almost easy to believe him. “We won’t let it happen, okay?”

Paul just looked at him tiredly, his eyes straining to distinguish as much of his expression as possible.

“What if he wants to?” He questioned quietly.

And that was what he was the most scared of, all in all; after all these years, the doubt persisted, and the idea was so invasive nothing could really shake it off his mind.

“Well, we’ll make him un-want to. We’ll stop him. I don’t know, but it won’t happen. It won’t. I’ll call and see him when I’m back in the UK.”

Paul softly nodded, the conversation having drained him in a few words. It was one of the things he had to stop himself thinking about, or else it would drag him down, down, down. He looked out at the sea again, and it was now fully night, but he could see the moon glittering over the water. It was a lovely sight.

“How many people have you seen die?” John’s voice came back, gentler.

Paul huffed.

“That’s what happens when you get old,” He retorted.

“You know what I mean.”

His first instinct was to deflect the question, crack a joke and call it a night. But words were blocked in his throat, and John’s hand was still as firm on his wrist. A headache had started pounding in his head and, maybe just this one time, he didn’t want to be alone. He opened his mouth, choking on air for a few seconds, but John just waited patiently next to him.

“Mal,” He finally let out.

There was a second when he could physically feel John’s shock radiating off of him.

“_What?_”

Paul let out a sad chuckle.

“Yeah,” He said, clearing his throat. “He, uh, he was shot by burglars? Um, something very… very silly. Hard to make sense of, you know? It was in early 1976. Just after New Year’s, I think. I need to check with Richie, I’m not totally sure. These things get blurry sometimes.” 

John remained silent, and if it wasn’t for his hand on Paul’s skin he would not even have been sure he was still here. It sounded like he had stopped breathing, too.

“And funny thing, uh…” Paul carried on, feeling like now that he opened the floodgates there was no possible way for him to close them back. “George. Uh. George did not live very… old, either.”

“No…” John let out in a whisper – a feeble thing, but so raw and miserable it punched Paul in the gut.

He swallowed and pushed through the painful lump in his throat.

“Lung cancer. Yeah. He was, um he was 57, or 58. 58. Yeah. It was ugly. And, I don’t know… I don’t think we can do much against that, you know?”

John stayed silent for a beat longer.

“That’s why you’ve been harassing us about smoking,” He stated after a while.

“Worth a try,” Paul replied with a humourless chuckle. 

He buried his feet deeper into the sand, chasing the cold.

“You know, I…” He started again, not really knowing why he couldn’t stop talking now. “It’s weird because I had all of these… passings, in little memory boxes in my head, you know. With the melancholy, and the grief, you know. And now it’s like. These boxes are opened and I can’t close them because every time I look at each of you I just… I just remember everything. It’s like an open wound, and no matter how hard I try to forget there’s always salt in it and I just can’t. Sometimes I manage not to think about it, but sometimes it comes back to me and it’s so… violent, it feels like it just happened all over again. And I’m just left with the pain, and the fear, and it’s so. Extraordinarily irrational now that I feel like I lose my mind a little.”

When his own voice faded away, the silence suddenly felt so loud his ears started ringing and he felt himself getting choked up again. After a moment though, John shuffled closer in the sand, moved his arm directly in-between Paul’s, his hand never ceasing to touch his Paul’s wrist, and lightly put his head on Paul’s shoulder – so light, as if he was scared Paul would shake him off. Paul simply leant his head on his. John didn’t say anything though, and Paul figured there wasn’t anything to say to that. He could still draw comfort and warmth from their near-cuddle, and that was enough.

A while later, when a shiver ran through John, they conjointly decided to go back to the villas. The way back up the rocky shore was a bit trickier now that it was likely around 2am, and when Paul instinctively reached a hand out to John as he nearly slipped on a stone, he was surprised to feel the other man take it. And most importantly, to not drop it the whole way back. When they finally reached the vicinity of the villas, the lights of their gardens welcomed them, a sight for sore (blind) eyes. They approached them hand in hand, and Paul wondered how he could make the moment last a bit longer when noise made him turn his head to the lit up porch of John’s villa.

Maureen was sitting on the wooden bench, smoking a cigarette with crossed legs. She was looking straight at them with a small, slightly embarrassed smile on her lips, probably sorry for having ‘interrupted’ them. They both froze, a dozen or so meters from her, but neither let go of their hands – if anything, Paul tightened his grip and felt John send him a sharp look. Paul smiled back at Maureen and turned his head to John.

“Good night?” He said, the words coming out like a question without him intending them to.

John gave him a small grin and nodded. He finally let go of Paul’s hand, and Paul immediately felt cold.

“Yeah,” John answered. 

“Okay. Okay okay.”

“Okay,” John repeated with a tiny grin – and Paul was glad there was enough light to really appreciate it this time.

“Okay. Alright. So… so good night.”

John giggled.

“You said that already. But yes, good night.”

“Yeah. Sleep tight,” Paul added dazedly, revelling in John’s tiny but (oh!) so beautiful smile.

“Just go to bed, Paul,” John downright laughed.

He pushed Paul’s shoulder playfully and Paul raised his hands in defence. With a wave to Maureen and a last glance to John, he retreated back into his own villa and headed straight for his bedroom. His heart was so light he felt close to flying.

Paul was a natural optimist. A glass half-full kind of person. He had lived his fair share of heartache and pain, maybe more than some people, but had also been incredibly lucky in more than one instances. He knew luck could be pursued, and was not one to give up easily. Adversity and novelty did not scare him; he had even discovered that he could at times work better when put on the spot. As he found himself back in his London flat though, with a tan and new beads necklaces, he realized he was in a somewhat new situation: an interval between confidence and uncertainty, misery and bliss. Nothingness and everything. He was teetering between states of mind, on the verge of crashing on either side, and it was driving him crazy. 

It had been a week already, and still no news from John. Radio silence.

He actually blamed himself for psyching himself so much in the first place. Sure, John and he had had a pretty good conversation on their last night in Malta, John had given him crumbs of hope and they had even held hands and all, but there hadn’t been… anything… that clearly indicated John had changed his mind about their future together. Paul was delighted already to have been able to talk so openly with him, to have understood his point of view a bit better. His mind felt lighter than it had in a good while, and it seemed like all the feelings, all of John’s reactions he had not quite been able to put a name on previously had unveiled a little bit. It was even odd to notice that after all these years, he could still learn things about his friend. He should feel satisfied from it. Grateful. And he did, really.

But he was a greedy bastard, and he wanted more.

More than once he stopped himself from just saying ‘fuck it’ and call him, but there was a tiny voice in him that kept telling him it was not a good idea. John had been clear about his needs: time, and consequently some space too. And Paul did not want to rush him, or to push him into doing something he was not comfortable in doing. He knew John loved to be needed, to be courted. To be put on a pedestal. He figured it had to be reassuring for him, somehow, to feel like the other person _could not_ stay away from him; that staying away from him could be painful for someone else. But this, them, was way too important for precarious security blankets. If they were to get back together, he wanted it to be on the most solid, healthy grounds possible. He wanted John to really want it – and not just to feel wanted. Paul had made his position clear, or at least so he thought. So now the ball was in John’s camp. But John had been back in London for six days now, and the ball was still nowhere in sight.

As he carried on with his life, friends, family and therapist appointments, Paul could not help but feel his heart clench every time he picked up the phone and it wasn’t John at the other end. They were back to being real friends at least, or so Paul thought, and he was striving to count that as a win. It was, a win. He was truly ecstatic they were back on speaking terms. He actually managed not to let his wondering paralyze his life, and did not let his obsessive stressing strike again (with great help from his therapist). He knew he was being impatient, and behaving like a spoiled child. A drama queen, even. But the fact was that he missed John terribly, and with every day the possibility that he might not want them to get back together at all was becoming more plausible, and that made his heart plummet. 

_Time_, Paul repeated to himself for the thousandth time that week. _Give him time_. 

It astounded him now how the fact that he might go back to the future from one moment to the next had become almost secondary in his mind. Thinking about it still hurt, and brought on him waves of guilt and shame. He missed his children and grandchildren, his wife too, and he was frequently plagued with the malicious, obsessive thought that not wanting to go back to the future meant he loved them less than he used to. Less than the people from his past. He had to rationalize it, and try to persuade himself that that line of thinking was irrational. The love he had for his family would never be stained by anything: not time nor space could attain it. And he could not compare the situations as future versus past anymore. He probably should have stopped doing that a long time ago, maybe even from the moment he had arrived in the past and realized he was not going to leave anytime soon. This was his present. And the future, by some magical, unexplainable and freaking chilling turn of events, had become his past. He had thought for the longest time that staying in the ‘past’, or choosing to do it, was somehow not fair on his family, but he realized now that it made no sense. First, he didn’t seem to have any choice in this. And second, even if there was still a whole lot of things he could do and accomplish in 2019, it was right now, in 1967, that he had the more to live. His children were adult; they had their own lives and didn’t need him as concretely as they had in the past. Of course they would always need him (God knew he still needed his mum, and his dad, long after their passing), but there was no need to sugar-coat it to himself: in 2019, he was closer to death than any other big moments of his life. 

Whereas here, _here_… he still thought this second life was an abomination of nature, and would not actually wish it on anyone, but there was _so much_ he could live. A new chance at pretty much anything he wanted. Old friendships he could nurture and salvage, new ones he could form. Give importance to things he had once overlooked and avoid himself the pain to lose time on what didn’t deserve his attention. He could make a difference where he had been too blind – or maybe too arrogant – to do it the first time. He had a new, unexpected but extraordinary new shot at love. So, no, he didn’t think he deserved to feel guilt for not wanting to go back to 2019. And yet.

The fear, though; the fear was even more insidious than the guilt. It clenched his stomach at the most random moments and left him suffused with an anguish he had trouble fighting because he could not determine its exact cause. Ever since he had been back, he had resumed his quest for Briony’s other chapters, and Ringo had too on his side, but the results were infuriatingly negative. Most libraries didn’t even know the magazine existed in the first place. It was becoming more and more probable that they would be sent back without any idea of how or why. Paul could not prepare for it, nor block it, and he simultaneously knew that in order to live and to function normally he just had to let the fear go. He could not just wait for every moment to be his last in 1967, and he was decided not to. The depression and anxiety he had developed since he had first arrived (and he had been both shocked and not surprised to hear his therapist use those terms) thrived in the doubt and powerlessness of his situation, but he did his best to fight them off. To keep living, and not go back to surviving. He was not going to give up.

He was recording ‘My Body Is a Cage’ when the phone rang, and the interruption honestly kind of annoyed him. Whether his memory was tricking him or he just didn’t have the right instruments, he couldn’t get the music right and he didn’t like to be interrupted when he was in a middle of something. He had been going at it for hours after an already full morning of socialisation, completely losing track of the day.

So he groaned loudly, pushed Melchior off of his lap and got up from the piano to briskly walk to the living-room. He picked up the phone and didn’t even bother hiding his annoyance.

“Hello? Who’s this?” 

He was first answered by three seconds of static.

“I can call another day if you’re gonna be in that mood.”

His heartbeat immediately picked up its pace at the voice. Paul rubbed his face to try and shake the grumpiness away.

“Sorry. I can’t record the Arcade Fire song and it’s driving me mad,” He explained in a sigh. “How are you?”

“Better than you, apparently.”

There was something guarded, cautious about John’s voice that made Paul feel on his toes.

“I’m not that bad,” He huffed in the phone, trying to defuse the misplaced tension.

“Mmh.”

There was a noise on the other end, some rustling. Then John’s voice again, louder:

“You uh… want to come by? Write a bit? I’ve had a tune stuck in my head all day.”

“Sure,” Paul answered, hoping he didn’t sound too eager. “Uh… now?”

He was met with another uncomfortable silence and found himself shuffling from one foot to the other as he waited.

“I mean, unless you need to be notified three weeks early.”

John’s voice was a little too sharp, a little too loud for it to be a casual joke. Paul chose to credit it to nerves. 

“Now is good. I’m… see you in a bit.”

John did not answer, and had hung up before Paul had even lowered his phone. His stomach twisted and he tried not to dwell on it too much. Surely, John inviting him over had to be a good sign, right? He wouldn’t invite him just to _yell_ at him, or… or accuse him of something else. He had wished John would not go back to sounding so stilted with him, but maybe it was nothing. Maybe John was just as confused on how to handle things as he was. 

He did not lose time in wondering any longer and went to the entrance to slip on his shoes. When she heard him, Martha came running from the bedroom and jumped on him, and seeing her tail wagging furiously instantly brought a smile back on his face. 

“Yes girl, yes, I’m taking you. Come on.”

He took her leash (in case – although he barely ever used it), his wallet and keys and left the flat with his furry daughter on his trail. The whole drive to John’s house was just long enough to make him question everything again, and to dwell on all their previous interactions. Had he screwed up again, somewhere? He didn’t feel like he had, but then again he had a history of not being a good judge at that. When he finally arrived in front of John’s property, he got out of the car to ring at the bell and the portal opened mere seconds after. Well. At least John was eagerly waiting for him. He drove up the alley, the gravel crunching under his tires, and the second he got out of the car and opened the door Martha jumped out of it and rushed to the porch. It warmed his heart to see how she was used to the house too, and how she thoroughly enjoyed coming here; she seemed to have a particular liking to Julian, who never failed to pet her religiously for hours on end. 

Paul followed her and by the time he arrived to the porch, John was standing in the entrance, one hand on the doorknob of the opened door. He didn’t have his glasses on, which was becoming rarer these days, and his hair looked all ruffled as if he had weaved his hands through it over and over again. Paul smiled at him and he faintly smiled back. 

“Still moody?” He asked, not making a move to let Paul in.

Paul stopped a few meters from him and briefly squinted at the sun. It was already low on the horizon. He had not realized it was so late. 

“No,” He answered. “You?”

John squatted to pet Martha, then scrutinized Paul's whole body for a moment (although he was bound not to see anything, especially from that distance). When he visibly found what he was looking for, his smile turned more knowing. 

“As long as you don’t piss me off,” He bounced back. 

Paul huffed. John finally stepped aside to let him in, and for a brief moment Paul saw himself a few months prior, leaving the house on stiff legs, his ears ringing with John’s dismissal. He chased the thought away, but his heart was already a bit heavier. John led him to the living-room and Paul noticed right away that they were alone in the house. The TV was on, showing some old film Paul did not recognize, and the room was surprisingly chilly, as if John had used a fan.

“Thirsty?” John asked as he aimlessly grabbed one of Julian’s toys hanging around on the floor and put it on the coffee table.

“I’m good. Thanks.”

As Martha took off for a grand tour of the house, sniffing everything, John dropped into the couch and brought a cushion on his lap. His eyes were stuck on the TV (and the fact that he still didn’t have his glasses was actually getting very confusing) and Paul felt a bit stupid for standing in the middle of the room with his arms hanging limply at his sides. John seemed to sense his discomfort and briefly glanced at him before patting the seat next to him.

“Stop looking like that. Just sit. Enjoy the film.”

Paul huffed but obeyed, making sure to leave a reasonable space between them. John had his arms crossed over his cushion, and he still wouldn’t look at him. Paul watched the TV screen too for a moment, but the confusion in his mind was so loud that he was not able to understand what he was seeing anyway. Martha came back running and nuzzled her wet nose into his hands, asking for more petting, which he obliged. 

“So… that tune you said?” He asked John after a moment, not quite figuring out what was happening here.

John hummed, his eyes still glued to the screen.

“You want to give it a try?” Paul pushed, the silence making him a bit uncomfortable.

John pursed his lips, visibly thinking it over, then brought his legs up on the coffee table. 

“Not now. Maybe later.”

Paul watched him a beat longer, waiting for something – anything, really – that could help him sense the vibe of the whole situation, but John’s face was frustratingly unreadable. 

“O-kay,” He murmured in response. 

They both kept watching the film for a moment, and it took a few minutes for Paul to realize he had actually seen it before. All his senses were already monopolized, acutely attuned to John’s body language; and his body screamed he was tense and jittery. The reason why still remained a mystery to Paul, but his own body was still soaking up that tension and restlessness. Every once and again, John would glance at the clock next to the bookcase, as if he was waiting for something in particular – or rather, and Paul could not really say why he had that feeling, as if he was running of time. Whatever it was, it was stressing Paul too. Highly aware of his own hands, he gripped his knees tightly to keep them still. When John spoke again, he was so surprised he nearly missed the beginning of it.

“If something else about the future comes up, or something else that's hard, are you gonna tell me the truth? Even if it’s horrible and it might hurt me?”

Paul immediately turned his head to him with a frown. John was not looking at him, but his arms were shaking and he was frowning in concentration.

“John, I don’t even think I’ll be able to lie to you when we play pok—”

Before he even finished his sentence, John pushed the cushion aside, pulled him by his shirt and kissed him with force.

For a couple of seconds Paul was so taken aback that he just blinked and froze, but then John’s free hand slipped on his neck and his stomach swooped. He kissed back and lifted his hands to hold onto John’s arms, blood rushing so wildly in his whole body that he was feeling dizzy from it. It was so much, so sudden, that his mind struggled to catch up with his body. Was this a spur of a moment thing, or did John want… want? When John briefly pulled back to kiss him from another angle, his nose bumping into Paul’s, Paul took the opportunity to speak up his fear, half-panting already:

“Are you—?!”

“Yes,” John groaned as he shuffled closer to him, his lips chasing Paul’s. “Shut up.”

He then pushed Paul’s arm and proceeded to drop onto his lap, forcing Paul to lean his head backwards on the couch as he deepened their kiss – and Paul was definitely _not_ complaining, but he was still so confused that he was properly overwhelmed. John was warm, solid and so ardent under his pressing hands that he felt himself growing very hot very quickly. There was nothing innocent in the way John was nipping at his chin and moaning into his mouth, and whatever this was going to be, it would definitely not last very long. John pulled back, panting, and dropped his forehead against Paul’s as he started unbuttoning Paul’s flowered shirt. Paul could not stop staring at him and John probably felt it, because suddenly he looked up. They locked gaze for a moment, both breathing heavily, and the tiny, shy smile appeared on John’s face. This was all the confirmation Paul needed. Feeling his belly exploding into thousands of little bubbles, he grinned back and leant in to kiss him again as John finished unbuttoning his shirt and slipped his warm hands on his waist. 

It was probably because of all the happy cheering going on inside his brain that Paul did not hear the car arriving, nor Martha’s low warning woofs, nor the door opening. Nor the steps coming ever closer to the living-room.

“We’re here! I finally didn’t have to drive by ni— oh.”

Paul and John startled as if they’d been electrocuted and John would have fallen off of Paul’s lap if it weren’t for Paul’s grip on his thighs. He got up in a flash, wiping a hand on his mouth, and Paul’s own hands flew up to his shirt to try and close the two lapels in a futile attempt to hide his heaving chest. He promptly turned his head to the hallway giving into the living-room, where Cynthia was standing with wide eyes and flushed cheeks. After a couple of stunned seconds, she brought a hand up to her face and half-turned around. Her embarrassment was coming off of her in waves and Paul internally cringed. 

However, a little human came barrelling into the room and distracted all three of them.

“Daddy!”

Julian went into John’s legs and hugged him. John bent down to hug him back and Paul could sense the relief in his face at having an excuse not to address the awkwardness in the room. Cynthia used the occasion too to mutter an excuse and leave the entrance altogether. Paul glanced at Martha, still laying on her spot near the TV and calmly looking at them, and cursed her a bit for not announcing Cynthia’s arrival to them. Or at least not announcing it louder.

“Hey little lad,” John said, even dropping a kiss into his son’s hair. “How was your dinner?”

But Julian ignored him and turned big eyes to Paul, his smile widening.

“Hi Paul!” He welcomed him with a little wave, before turning his attention to Martha when she came to nuzzle him. “Hi Martha!”

“Hi Jules,” Paul answered with a genuine smile of his own.

He exchanged a glance with John, and judging by the other man’s downright scarlet cheeks, he had not expected to be interrupted either. John looked back at the corridor and straightened back up, taking Julian’s hand in his.

“I’m gonna tuck you in, alright?” He asked.

Julian amiably nodded. John guided him out of the living-room and when he looked back at Paul just before going into the corridor and flashed him an amused grin, Paul glared at him. So much for solidarity.

Once John and Julian’s steps had receded into the staircase, Paul took the time to button his shirt back up and to vaguely comb his hair with his hand. Feeling presentable but nowhere near comfortable again, he braced himself and got up, his legs leading him to the kitchen out of instinct. He could hear the tip-tap of Martha’s paws behind him, and it weirdly gave him a sliver of confidence.

Cynthia had put a kettle on and was very intensely looking at it, her hands leaning on the gas cooker. Paul stopped at the door and crossed his arms embarrassedly. When she still didn’t notice his presence, he cleared his throat and she turned around in a flash.

“Uh… hey,” He lamely said.

She fished for words for a moment, her still wide eyes staring at him as if he was a ghost.

“Um… yes. Hi,” She finally let out. 

She chanced a smile, and Paul saw the genuineness behind her palpable embarrassment. He almost wanted to hug her but realized it would probably not be the best move in their situation. Instead he uncrossed his arms and crossed them back again, even tighter this time, and bit his lips.

“I’m… I’m sorry, I didn’t know… I didn’t mean to—” Cynthia started, voice wavering and her eyes flitting a bit all around the room before coming back to Paul.

“Oh no, no!” Paul rushed to reassure her. “I’m the one who’s— uh, sorry. I’m sorry you, uh… you saw that. It’s, um. Yeah. It won’t happen again.”

Cynthia looked at him for a moment, grimacing a little, then her features relaxed and she let out a little breath of a laugh.

“Well… it might, though,” She smiled through her unease. “Doesn’t it.”

He gaped at her, feeling called out, and his neck grew even hotter. In his lifelong list of embarrassing moments, this one got easily into the top three. He ended up giggling awkwardly, because really he had no relevant answer to that. He did hope Cynthia would never, ever have to see them kiss again (especially _that_ type of kiss) but he surely hoped they would keep doing it. The kissing. 

“Yeah,” He ended up saying, preferring not to get into that topic. “I’ll. I’ll let myself out, now, I think.”

Cynthia frowned, her kindness already breaking through her unease.

“Oh I’m not kicking you out! Don’t you want to wait for John to…?” She asked, pointing at the ceiling. 

“Oh, no, no don’t worry,” Paul affirmed, already turning back to the hallway. “I’ll give him a call. It’s fine. I’m… sorry, again. Really.”

She watched him go, a frown still firmly set on her forehead. He had already a hand on the knob of the front door when her voice rose again.

“Paul!”

He froze and turned an expectant face at her. He kind of couldn’t wait to be in his car and drive back home already, far from the cringe-worthy embarrassment of being caught nearly in the act by his maybe-lover’s ex-lover/still wife. 

“I…” She started, still blushing too. “I’m glad it’s better. Between you. I’m… really.”

It took a couple of seconds for Paul to integrate the words, blown away by their selflessness. He looked up the staircase, up to wherever John was at the moment, and flashes of the other man’s little smile just before Cynthia had arrived came back to him. He awkwardly chuckled, and smiled at her.

“Yeah. Yeah, me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Links to the original song paul plays:  
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=Jdve08cG3pE  
And a cover by peter gabriel that is breathtaking as well (very angsty):  
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=dTZQ2IB_x7c


	54. Chapter 54

After their interrupted snogging session, Paul had expected another long period of drought of John-related-news. He was prepared for it even, instructing himself not to get his hopes up too quickly. After all, John was a hot-blooded person, and maybe he had started regretting what had happened the second he had disappeared upstairs with Julian. Paul was still overexcited, obviously, and had found it even harder than usual to sit still that night – sleeping not even being an option. The butterflies in his belly were now his official tenants, and his fingers were constantly itching to reach for something, be it his guitar, his pets. The telephone. He had gone out, drank a bit, socialized a lot. Anything to take his mind off of John and of the meaning of their encounter. But with the Polaroid of John and his pets he kept in his wallet, he even had his lovely face with him all the time – just another reminder to add to the infinite list. He couldn’t shake off the feeling of his lips on his, the touch of his fingers, the weight of him on his lap, and found himself regularly bringing fingers on his mouth in a vain attempt to recapture the heat of their kiss.

He was still so excited after his night out that he was not even tired. He was at the moment playing guitar in the living-room, clad only in his briefs (summer was hitting hard) with the new kitten in his lap. Thisbe and Martha were both lying next to him, and Paul was already planning all sorts of activities for the day in order not to let his mind wander off too far. He couldn’t let himself dream too much. The fall would be too brutal if John ended up regretting and telling him he had changed his mind. He was looking for arrangements for a new tune when the door rang. It was still early, 7am early, and he did not have plans until at least three hours later so really, he was not expecting anyone. He quickly put on some shorts, and went to the entrance, keeping the kitten cuddled in the crook of his arm, against his chest. He swiftly opened the door and was a bit taken aback to be so closely face-to-face with his visitor.

“…Wow,” John let out after a moment, his eyes shamelessly raking Paul’s body. “That’s quite the vision first thing in the morning.”

Paul gaped at him for a second, before standing aside to let him in without a word. His brain was a mess of elation and a long string of ‘_wait what do I do what’s happening what what?!_’ and he was left speechless. His stomach churned and he realized he could not even smile if he wanted to, too stressed to find out the intentions of John’s visit. John petted Martha who had got up to welcome him, and went further into the flat. He was wearing round sunglasses, light pants and a black t-shirt, and it took Paul a while to realize it was _his_ t-shirt, one he had inadvertently left at John’s house months before. John knew that, right? It couldn’t be a coincidence… right?

“Did I wake you?” John asked as he stopped in the living-room and spotted the guitar on the couch.

The question did not seem to be triggered by any specific clue and did not make much sense knowing John perfectly knew Paul was an early bird but Paul still indulged him, feeling a bit out of his depth himself.

“No, no, I… I actually didn’t sleep,” Paul confessed, a bit twitchy as he crossed his arms in the archway of the living-room.

John turned his head to him and sent him a mysterious smile.

“Me neither,” He simply said.

They looked at each other in silence. After a moment, Paul shuffled on his feet and rubbed his jaw. He blushed a bit when he realized he had not shaved yet.

“Do you… um, fancy a bit of breakfast? I don’t have much, but. Toast?” He asked as he turned to enter the kitchen.

“Sure.”

Paul took out some bread loaf, cut two slices, put them into the toaster and then went to the cupboard to grab an unopened jar of jam. His ears were acutely attuned to the noises coming from the living-room, and he could tell John was with Thisbe. 

“Oh!” John suddenly let out, sounding particularly surprised.

Jar still in hands, Paul walked to the kitchen archway to look at him. John had pushed his glasses off on his head and was crouching in front of Martha’s bed to let the new kitten smell his fingers. John briefly looked up at him, looking delighted.

“When did you get that little lassie?”

Paul smirked but did not correct him.

“For my birthday.”

John smiled when the kitten playfully bit his finger.

“What’s her name?”

“Melchior.”

John froze for a second then started laughing. A clear, brilliant sound.

“That’s… Yeah, good name. Strong name. But I thought tortoiseshells were always girls. Are you sure it’s a boy?”

Paul glanced at John as he was picking up Melchior and turning him over to look at his genitals.

“Put my cat down you pervert!” Paul exclaimed, fighting off a laugh as his nervousness was dripping out of him. “You’re gonna give him a TBI if you keep shaking him like that. He _is_ a baby boy, believe me. There’s no need to sift him.”

“Alright, alright!”

John giggled again but obeyed, petting Melchior an extra time just to prove a point. The kitten meandered away, his tail pointing proudly at the sky. Then John got up and looked at Paul. His cheeks were pink, and a tiny grin was floating on his lips as he scratched his nose – way longer than would have been necessary. Paul stopped trying to open the jar and just stood there, taking all of him in.

“I have something for you,” John suddenly said.

He searched into the pockets of his pants for something, which turned out to be a ripped article taken from a newspaper. He took a few steps towards Paul and handed it to him. Paul put the jar down on the counter next to him and took the paper, curious. It was from a newspaper that was a few weeks old already. The title, written in big bold letters, was incriminating: “THE CHAPTER FOR CORRUPTION”.

“Charming,” Paul commented before reading anything else.

“That’s ‘cause we’re not illegal anymore,” John chirped in a weird voice.

Paul looked up, a bit confused. John was biting on his lips, trying not to smile. Then the dots finally connected in Paul’s brain and his lips formed a perfect ‘oh’.

“The sexual offences act…” Paul murmured, letting his eyes fall back onto the article.

He felt more than he saw John nod in front of him.

“We’re free, Paul. I mean, even if… you know… even. Just separately, whatever happens. It’s not illegal anymore. I wanted to tell you yesterday, actually, before… you know.”

Paul looked up again, his fingers tightening on the piece of paper. His heart clenched a bit, even though he was indeed a bit relieved to realize the law had been passed, once again.

“That’s…” He started – then breathed deeply. “That’s great. Really. A step in the good direction, at least.”

He handed the paper back to John, and when the other man took it, their fingers lightly brushed. The contact electrified Paul’s whole body and his breath hitched (which was ridiculous – he was not a teenager anymore!). They stared at each other for probably way too long, the thin corridor separating them, both twitching nervously. The toaster beeped and let out the toasts, but neither reacted to it. The air around them had suddenly taken on some gravity.

“You really have no idea of when you’ll go back to the future, then?” John asked quietly.

Paul shook his head.

“No,” He simply confirmed. “Could be any day.”

John nodded and bit his lip, his gaze lost on the floor between them and his feet rocking on his heels a bit.

“And how do you feel about that?”

Paul didn’t need much time to think over his answer; it was ever-present in his mind.

“Scared,” He said. “Mostly. I feel like… I don’t belong in 2019 anymore. I belong here, with all of you. And I really don’t want to leave.” After a pause, he quietly added: “I don’t want to leave _you_.”

John looked up and studied Paul’s face for the longest time, visibly lost in thoughts. Whatever he found on Paul’s face made him divert his eyes and made his lips quiver with a repressed smile. His expression was so embarrassedly pleased that it made Paul grin too. He had not expected such a heavy topic to lead to this reaction, but he was glad that it hadn’t ruined the mood. It was nice to be able to talk about it openly.

“You’re really…” John started, then stopped. “Do you really still want to be with me? Even if you might go back to your wife?”

“Yes.”

John looked surprised at the bluntness of his answer, but the word had left Paul’s lips so naturally that he wouldn’t have been able to stop it anyway. John schooled his face, breathed deeply, and Paul felt anticipation buzzing in the tip of his fingers. _Something_ was coming, and waiting for it was starting to kill him until John spoke again:

“So… can I kiss you?”

Paul’s grin widened as his stomach positively boomed with excitement. It was a strange mixture of astonishment and inevitability because of course, _of course_ they were to end up right here, with John asking him softly and awkwardly if he could kiss him – as if it was surprising him too. And yet, it still blew Paul’s mind away. When he started nodding like a crazy man, John’s face brightened under his very eyes.

“Yeah,” Paul said with a laugh, unable to keep it in. “Yes.”

John’s smile grew impossibly large as he took a few steps forward and stopped right in front of Paul. His hand gently brushed Paul’s arm, visibly not knowing where to land, until it settled on his elbow. Paul just watched him, pursing his lips and feeling his cheeks burn. He felt like a teenager with his first love, only this was a thousand times better. He felt safe and strong. John slowly leant in and brushed his nose with his, making Paul giggle. Paul lifted his hand to slip it into John’s hair, going all the way to stop at his nape, making the sunglasses fall off to the ground and leaving the auburn hair even wilder in its path. John chuckled, closed his eyes and leant in again: his lips ghosted over Paul’s, causing a shiver to course through his whole body and goosebumps to erupt on his skin. Then, finally, John added that last push and his mouth slotted against Paul’s, so warm and soft and _sure_ that Paul let out a tiny whine and lightly tightened his grip on his hair. _This_ – this was the surest thing he’d ever known. John’s other hand came up to his waist and he pulled Paul closer to him; the kiss was so deliberate, both firm and tender that Paul wanted to engrave the feeling on his lips forever. It felt like they had always been meant to live this moment: to be here, together, kissing and shyly grinning in each other’s faces. Their lips were gliding together as if it was the most natural thing in the world – and as John’s tongue teased his upper lip for Paul to open his mouth and deepen the kiss, Paul knew without a doubt that it actually _was_.

Paul lost track of time for a while (John’s hands, breath and mouth were the only relevant things in the moment) until John nipped his lower lip, kissed it again and pulled back. Feeling the other man’s gaze on him, Paul reluctantly opened his eyes and was bewildered by the awe and devotion pouring out of every single detail of John’s expression. He didn’t realize he was smiling himself until John’s eyes tracked his mouth and a toothy grin appeared on his face. At some point Paul had apparently moved his hands to John’s back, and John brought up his own to caress Paul’s neck and temples, grinning even wider when he slipped them into his hair and Paul groaned, his eyes fluttering close against his will. John dropped another chaste kiss on his mouth and shuffled closer to him again to take him into the tenderest embrace possible. He tucked his face into Paul’s neck and Paul kissed his head before doing the same, tightening his hold over John’s back. John was so solid and broad and full between his arms that it suddenly came to Paul how strange he would have found it once, to be with a man, _this_ specific man, and how obvious he found it now.

The second he started _thinking_, doubt flooded back in him though, and a little dagger of anxiety popped up and threatened to cut his stomach to shreds. He lifted his head a bit, tucking his chin over John’s shoulder, licked his dry lips and cleared his throat.

“Are you—does that mean you’re taking me back, then…?”

At that John pulled back, a bubble of laughter escaping from him. His eyes were brighter than ever, a steady point of contact that made Paul feel at home. He bumped Paul’s nose with his.

“Yes. Yes, Paul, you idiot. Obviously.”

Happiness blossomed in Paul’s chest with such force that for a few seconds he was literally dizzy from it, blood pumping in his ears. It was everything he had wanted to hear ever since they had broken up, and it was almost hard to believe that now it was happening. Although, he couldn’t help the tiny frown settling over his eyebrows. It didn’t feel obvious to him. Not a little, not even at all. Truth be told, if Paul could avoid to make any assumptions ever again in his life about John’s (or anyone else’s) feelings, he would be perfectly content. John nuzzled him again.

“I mean it. I wouldn’t be kissing you if I didn’t want to be glued to your plump, whiny butt again,” He said with a soft chuckle, as if prompting Paul to get out of his looping thoughts.

And that, well. That wasn’t quite the truth, was it? So Paul cleared his throat again, hoping he wouldn’t make the moment go awkward.

“Yeah, well, um. It’s not that obvious, you know. Since… I mean, we _did_ kiss at the BBC broadcast and yet—”

John’s eyes widened and he immediately ducked his head against Paul’s shoulder, the pink on his cheeks darkening by the second.

“Oh God. Yeah. Yeah I’m. I’m sorry about that. You’re ri— I should never have jumped on you like that, it was… I’m sorry. It was not a good idea and. Yeah.”

When Paul kept looking at him, he cleared his throat and scratched his nose. It was unusual to see him be embarrassed and at a loss for words like that.

“I was angry,” He went on. “I mean, I still was very angry, and you were driving me insane, but I had no right to force myself on you like that—”

“Oh no, no, you didn’t!” Paul rushed to correct. “Really, believe me. I was _totally_ on board. But yeah, it probably wasn’t a very good idea at that moment. I didn’t… it didn’t make me feel very good, afterwards.”

“Me neither,” John agreed in a breath.

Paul leant in and dropped a soft kiss on John’s cheek.

“But this time is good, yeah? Right?”

John observed his whole face and slowly smiled. The small, shy one.

“Yeah. This time is very good.”

Both grinning like schoolboys with a crush, they met in the middle and pecked each other again, as if they were rediscovering each other. As if it was their first kiss after years of pining, or if they were so overwhelmed with emotion they could not get their lips and tongues to move correctly. In a way, it was exactly what was happening. The kiss deepened, and after a moment John started walking backwards, back into the living-room (and really, it was telling that he knew Paul’s flat well enough to be able to find the couch without once detaching his mouth from Paul’s). With one hand on the small of John’s back, Paul followed him as he fell backwards on the couch, lying on it with Paul above him. Paul could not stop kissing him, and the little whines coming out of John made him want to swallow him whole.

“I’ve _really_ missed you,” John confessed, his voice barely a whisper over Paul’s lips – and such confessions from him were so rare it made Paul even more emotional.

“Me too,” Paul immediately gushed back. “I’ve missed you so much.”

John pulled back a bit, his lips, forehead and nose still brushing Paul’s face. His breath was so ragged and hot it made Paul delirious with want.

“Yeah…?” John asked with a small, unsure voice.

Paul furiously nodded and licked his chapped lips, trying to find coherent words.

“’Feel like I’ve spent my whole life missing you. But— these last three months, just—” He kissed John again, unable to stop himself, before pulling back. “Agony.”

He leaned in again, pressing ever closer, kissing him deeper and more and more sloppily each second. But after a moment John pulled back again, pushing his head as far down into the cushion as he could. His eyes fluttered between Paul’s lips and eyes. Oddly, he was frowning a little.

“Not much to miss though,” He finally said – and it was such a disbelieving statement that it made Paul’s protective streak roar louder.

Despite John still leaning backwards, Paul came closer and softly caressed his nose with his.

“Nonsense!” He countered. “I missed your nose.”

John snorted, but the sound got caught in his throat when Paul kissed said nose, then lowered to his neck and his jaw.

“Missed your neck. Your jaw—”

“My manly stubble that constantly reminds you I’m not a girl?” John ironized, although his voice came out weak and a bit lower than usual.

Paul lightly nipped on his jaw, his teeth catching on said stubble.

“_Yes_,” He told him in-between two bites. “I did because I particularly like your manly stubble. And the manly hair on your legs, and your manly, broad shoulders. And, you know. Your very manly penis.”

Once again, John was reduced to silence and Paul felt him squirm under him. He kept caressing John’s face with his nose, dropping kisses here and there, each time longer and wetter. John was visibly straining not to make any noise, the tendons in his neck pulled taut. Paul pulled back an instant to watch his own hand as he slipped it into John’s hair.

“Your hair. God, that might sound weird, but I really love your hair. And your beautiful, beautiful hands. The muscles on your back, your nipples… your tummy, too. Most magnificent tummy ever. In the whole world. And your thighs— just… wish you could see them through my eyes. Really. I have missed all of you so, so. So much.”

As he talked, his free hand softly roamed John’s body over said places, slipping under John’s shirt and dropping careful kisses here and there. Ever slowly, he helped John to shimmy out of his clothes, taking his own shorts and briefs off as well – knowing that John was prone to feel insecure if he was the only one fully naked. And Paul felt on fire anyway; he could not bear the friction of his clothes on his skin any longer. If felt like a precious moment, a bubble between them, and John’s hands were steadfastly holding onto Paul’s waist and back too. When Paul’s head brushed his as he looked at John’s body, he kept kissing his hair or his temple. He was squirming and pushing up into Paul at this point, but Paul was decided on taking his time. Even though it was getting harder and harder with how unbelievably hot John looked, with his reddened cheeks and his heaving chest. What made it even harder was the clear disbelief and vulnerability in his eyes – as if the mere idea that Paul could be missing him, physically missing him to be more specific, was absurd.

Paul’s wandering hand came back up on John’s waist, the other still safely twined into auburn hair. John remained uncharacteristically silent, just observing his every move with dark, attentive eyes.

“You know what I missed the most though? Even more than the freckles on your arms, which is saying something?”

John hesitated, then softly shook his head. So Paul tapped two light fingers on his temple.

“My skull?” John tried with a raised eyebrow.

Paul giggled and flicked John’s ear, which earned him a sharp, bright bark of laughter and a scrunched up nose.

“Your mind, you idiot. Your genius, brilliant… witty. Sensitive mind. I just really, really love the inside of your skull.”

John grimaced in fake disgust, but Paul merely retaliated by kissing his upturned lips. When he pulled away again, John’s eyes tracked his mouth. He swallowed and looked up at Paul dead in the eye. He seemed to hesitate a moment, the tips of his fingers ghosting over Paul’s face, before deciding to speak:

“You know what… flattery will get you everywhere with me. It’s open bar. Keep going.”

Paul froze, and for a second they just stayed still and staring at each other. Then an uncontrollable, giant grin grew on Paul’s face and was immediately reverberated on John’s.

“Twat,” Paul playfully murmured before diving back in onto John’s lips and depositing one, two quick kisses that John turned deeper when he brought his hand on the back of Paul’s head.

When John pulled back again, Paul whined.

“Does that mean you missed my mouth too?”

“Oh my God,” He laughed. “_Yes_. Now, shut up.”

Extraordinarily, John did.

A few hours later, they were cuddling under a blanket on the couch, naked. Paul had completely lost the sense of time: for all he knew, they could have been right there for centuries – although he suspected it had only been a couple of hours tops. Laying in-between John’s legs, his head was resting on his chest and in the crook of his neck, and John’s arms were safely secured around him. And – extra bonus – the two cats loved together on their entangled legs purred every time Paul moved his feet. It was way too hot between the summer temperature, John’s body heat, the blanket and the cats, but he felt so good and at peace that nothing could convince him to move. They had stopped talking (and doing other things) a while ago and were just content to be together, to listen to the noises of the park filtering through the window and to each other’s breathing. From their position they had even view on the window facing the streets and could see trees. A real picturesque painting.

John suddenly hugged him a bit tighter and kissed his temple. He had done that specific action several times already, his lips often lingering against Paul’s hair, as if the urge just randomly popped up in his mind once in a while. It still amazed Paul, even after all this time, to witness his friend being so affectionate, so easily tactile and unguarded with him. Not that Paul wasn’t – he had never cared much about PDA with his previous lovers –, but it had taken so long for him to allow himself these same reflexes with John that it fascinated him to see how easy and natural it looked for the other man. As if he had accepted that part of him a long time ago. Which he probably had. Paul couldn’t help but be curious about it, too, and realized… maybe he was allowed to be.

“Am I your first?” He then asked, caressing John’s arm laying on his chest with his thumb.

“Mmh? My first what?”

“Your first bloke.”

John pursed his lips against Paul’s temple then pulled back. Paul immediately missed the contact.

“What do you think?” John asked, frustratingly neutral.

“Is this a trick question?”

“Mmh. Depends on your answer.”

“That is the definition of a trick question.”

John didn’t answer but Paul felt his body shake with silent giggles.

“You’re mine, you know,” Paul stated pensively, taking John’s hand in his to play with his fingers.

“Yeah. I do.”

“… You really won’t tell me?”

John sighed, raising his free hand to scratch his nose. His silence proved he was looking for the right words.

“Nah,” He finally started. “Never took the leap. I mean, I have given hand jobs to a couple of blokes here and there, but. I was mostly high, you know. I don’t remember that much of it… it was quite a bit ago now anyway. Thought about it, though. I could have, too. Like I could have easily fucked a few men I met. I have wanted to sometimes, I was attracted to some of them but… you know. Didn’t do it. No bloke was _really_ pretty enough for me to jump off the bridge.”

Paul was almost ashamed to be surprised by John’s candour; as if somewhere in his mind, he had expected him to lie about it. Not to bloody admit _he had actively wanted to have sex with men_. Had literally done it even, to some extent, even though he was prone to quickly brush it aside as inconsequential. Paul briefly wondered who it could have been, but he also realized that he did not really want to know. He didn’t feel the need to. It was John’s business, his privacy – if he did not disclose it to Paul on his own, then Paul wouldn’t push. All that counted was there had been men, men that were not Paul, at a time when Paul would have never even considered gay sex an actual option. And it was okay. Normal. But it still made him feel weird. He couldn’t help but imagine having the same conversation with John in his past, in his first youth. Maybe John would have been as opened, after a few glasses, but Paul was not sure he would have let him talk about it. He could feel the burning second-hand embarrassment from his past self. He would have probably laughed it off, blamed it on the alcohol. Turned it into a joke. Thinking about it now twisted his stomach the tiniest bit.

He tried to focus on the present, though. John was being open and trusting with him. Truthful. He studied John’s last words quickly in his head and something dawned on him. He angled his head up to see his boyfriend’s face and smiled goofily at him.

“But I am. Pretty enough.”

John scoffed, his eyes quickly flitting away. But his arms had tightened around Paul the tiniest bit.

“As if you needed me to say it,” He said.

“Maybe I would just _like_ to hear you say it.”

“Well. Hard luck, then.”

Paul frowned, pursing his lips. He just stared at John until the other man ostentatiously sighed.

“Okay, _fine_. You’re handsome.”

“… That’s a bit underwhelming.”

“Jesus.” John laughed. Then he manoeuvred Paul in his arms so he could stare at him straight in the eyes. “You are the most beautiful person I have ever seen and the first time I saw you I thought you looked unfairly gorgeous for a bloke. And you still do. Always have, even with that stupid moustache.”

As John poked the space between his nose and lips, Paul scrunched up his nose and felt himself blushing. A grin grew back on his face. He was feeling warm all over and settled back down against his lover, nuzzling in his chest.

“Thank you,” He murmured against the pale skin.

“What about you, then?” John asked when Paul stopped squirming against him. “Have you ever fancied other men? Like, even a little bit?”

Paul squirmed a bit, his hands getting suddenly a bit clammy. He opened his mouth to answer but ended up just gaping like a fish. Why couldn’t he just…? He wanted to say no. He really did. _But_…

“I…” He started, not knowing how to continue – his brain had become a mushy, confused cloud.

However, John moved to look at his face again. After a few seconds, his eyebrows rose and his grin widened.

“My oh my. Dirty little Macca.”

“Shut up. It’s not like that. I just… I mean. Like, there’s you, obviously. And. You know.”

“No I don’t, Paul. Please enlighten me.”

Paul groaned and threw his head on the backrest while John was mercilessly staring at him. It was not something he had consciously thought about; it was even something he had consciously _avoided_ thinking about. But the unveiling of his attraction for John had, in a way, _maybe_, sort of unveiled other… clarifications, about a couple of memories. Sensations and… thoughts that he had pushed away the second they had come into his brain and that he had fiercely locked away for years afterwards. One friendly face in particular came back to him, and images of moments of familiarity between them which, somewhere in his mind, Paul had known could have easily led to more.

Maybe.

“Are you saying you are not Johnsexual?” John dramatically gaped. “No wait, it should rather be Lennonsexual. Lennoneer – like Lennon and queer, got it? Johnny gay. Gay for Johnny.”

“Will you shut up?!” Paul laughed, his neck feeling hot. “I’m not gay just for you, you idiot. It doesn’t work like that. I just, you know—I may have had _some_ attraction to other men before. Maybe. But I, I mean I’m not entirely sure what it was, I’m saying this now you know, retrospectively. I probably repressed it so hard, I don’t know. Stop looking at me like that.”

John’s amused gaze had turned a bit more pointed, a bit steadier. If he looked hard, Paul could even detect a hint of carefully concealed jealousy behind the light brown of his eyes.

“… Like who…?” He ended up asking with a falsely distracted voice, as if he expected Paul to believe he didn’t really care about the answer.

“Well who’s the curious little chipmunk now? I didn’t ask _you_ who you fancied, did I?”

But John turned more fully towards him and gripped his shoulder, shaking it a bit. His face had turned very serious.

“Come on. Please, tell me. And please don’t say it’s Robert fucking Fraser or I’m gonna knock his teeth out right now.”

Paul gasped at him, a bit taken aback. How had he…? He wondered a moment what answer was the most judicious seeing the sudden dark look on John’s face. The mere idea of lying now made him feel sick though, so there was not that much choice.

“Well, uh… I mean, you know. I don’t want you to—”

“Fuck!” John cut him off abruptly, letting go of Paul and dragging his hands on his face in a nervous motion. “Fuck, this is a fucking joke—”

Paul pushed himself into a sitting position to turn around and look at John face to face. He grabbed his arm and tried to pry it off John’s face.

“But hey John, don’t—I mean, it was the first time around. When I was really young. I don’t care about him now, I don’t feel anything when I see him. You know, not at all. And, you know, it’s been decades for me now, almost… uh, fifty years, a bit more even. I really don’t feel anything physical or emotional for anyone but you. I promise.”

John observed him silently, his hands having ended over his own mouth. He did not look convinced one bit. Paul let out a small helpless chuckle, his hand coming up to John’s cheekbone.

“Love, I mean it. There’s only you. You’ve obliterated everyone else.”

John kept staring at Paul and rubbed his lips before he let out an unimpressed ‘mmh’. Paul tenderly brushed his hair off his face.

“Baby. Don’t overthink.”

That seemed to bring John out of his insecure bout of jealousy.

“Baby?” He repeated with wide eyes and the beginning of a grin.

Paul squirmed and gazed down at his hand lingering on John’s belly, feeling a bit embarrassed.

“Well. _You_’ve called me that before. I can… not do it, if you don’t like it. ‘S fine.”

John’s expression turned gentler and his grin widened.

“I like it. As long as you don’t call me that in front of the lads or we’ll never hear the end of it. And I better not see you with Robert anymore.”

“No,” Paul frowned. “No, I won’t stop talking to him. You don’t get to control my friends, just like I don’t get to control yours. We’re still two separate beings with separate acquaintances, and sharing our lives doesn’t mean you get to choose things for me. Just as, you know, I don’t get to try and control you either. Oh come on, don’t sulk about it. Nothing will happen but Bob is still my friend, so just accept it. Alright?”

John’s gaze turned darker and graver again.

“Are you serious?”

His voice was a bit menacing, but Paul merely glared back.

“Yes, I am completely serious. I love you but I won’t be your slave, so just get on with it.”

John squinted, crossing his arms on his chest. Their staring contest lasted for a very long moment, neither willing to back off, until John unclenched his arms and relaxed his squared jaw the tiniest bit. Paul raised an eyebrow at him, and he finally sighed through gritted teeth:

“_Fine_.”

“Good. Thank you.”

“Mmh.”

John was properly pouting now, a frown still comfortably settled on his forehead. He looked like a miffed little kid.

“This is for the best,” Paul added, hoping he didn’t come across as too authoritative. “I don’t want us to kill each other in a few months.”

“Great, you really trust me, huh,” John groaned.

“Don’t pretend we don’t both know you can get crazy jealous and I get a bit too… controlling. Sometimes.”

John’s eyes were sending daggers, but Paul stared right back. He could feel the anger steaming out of John, growing and growing even though John still kept his mouth resolutely shut. He looked like he was trying hard not to get offended and Paul was endeared by the intention. He dropped a kiss on the corner of his mouth, grazing his lips all over John’s chapped one. As expected, John gave in with a sigh and moved to kiss Paul properly (although he was still clearly sulking a bit). After a few seconds though, he slid a hand on Paul’s jaw and pulled back to breathe, his nose and mouth mushed against Paul’s cheek.

“I love you too, you know,” He whispered, his voice still a tad stiff but nuzzling into Paul – and Paul could practically feel the burn of his cheeks blushing. “Never stopped.”

Paul opened his eyes and patiently waited for John to pull away and look back at him. Then, Paul smiled.

“I know.”

And the crazy thing was, he did. But the fact that John felt secure enough to actually say it, that early (all things considered) still made him feel grateful and lucky. When his stomach grumbled though, the cats got up and stretched before jumping off of the couch. He suddenly remembered the toasts he had started to prepare and that were probably long cold, now. He checked the time on his watch; it was nearly 10. He was supposed to meet his friends in a few, but at that moment it was the last thing he wanted to do. He kicked off the blanket, the heat finally getting the better of him, and John hummed in approval.

“Do you have plans for the day?” He asked John with another cheek kiss, grabbing his fingers again to softly play with them.

“You,” John answered with an exaggeratedly suave voice that made Paul giggle like a fool. “You’re my plans for the day.”

“Confident much.”

“Never hurt anyone.”

Paul laughed again and pushed himself up, ignoring John’s unsatisfied whine at the loss of contact and his grabby hands trying to bring him back down.

“I need to make a call, cancel my lunch,” Paul explained as he struggled to stretch and grab the phone next to the couch.

“Aww,” John cooed with a kiss on Paul’s shoulder. “You’re changing your plans for little ol’ me.”

“Well you’re not giving me much choice, are you,” Paul noted with a raised eyebrow as the phone was ringing in his ear.

John merely grinned, poking his finger into Paul’s cheek. As he waited for his friends to pick up, Paul couldn’t hold in the smile splitting his face in two. When he saw the amber shining in John’s eyes and the glistening red of his cheeks, he did not feel one bit guilty about cancelling his plans.

Ever since his arrival in the 1960s, periods of holidays worried Paul. He had always loved working, adored being busy; he was originally not one to twiddle his thumbs when he wasn’t in the studios, and his time-travelling had only heightened (or worsened, he guessed some could say) this trait of his. However, in the days following his and John’s reunion, he was the happiest in the world to have no obligations at all. John was basically living in his flat and they barely ever left it. Paul had worried about Julian at first, not wanting the child to go on too long without his father, but John had promptly reassured him and told him his son was with Cynthia in her family for the week; they had left the very morning, just before John had come to the flat, and all he needed to do was go back to his house regularly to feed the cats. Those rides were among the rare moments during which they were separated. They both knew being this attached at the hip – literally – was an exceptional situation, justified by them finding each other back and by being on holiday, but it was nice nevertheless. It was like a honeymoon phase, and Paul was excited to see how their relationship would evolve from now on. When he managed of course to ignore the atrocious fact that he had no idea how long he would even stay in this timeline.

They didn’t talk about it, though. It was not really a taboo, but it certainly was a topic too painful for the both of them seeing they didn’t know how long they would have together at all. They would have to address it eventually; burying their heads in the sand could only work for so long. However, when Paul had tentatively breached the subject, John had assented with him that even though talking about the hard stuff was necessary (especially if they wanted not to repeat past mistakes), they deserved a little break in all the drama. They had decided to wait for the filming of the movie to be done, which gave them short of two months of ‘drama-free holiday’. Paul doubted it would really last, and he was aware they would be forced to address their future even within that time at some point or another, but. Well. He wanted to enjoy John as much as he could and reduce the possibilities of getting his heart broken over some eventual incompatibility between them. He knew they existed, he knew John and he were similar but also drastically different people, but he chose to wish that their love would conquer all in the end. At least, he was allowed to dream, and to linger in his love bubble.

One event they could not avoid, though, was a Beatles photoshoot in Thompson House on a sunny Friday. There was a lot of people around, a lot of strangers, and they had agreed not to tell anyone they were back together yet. There was a time and place for everything, and the risk of having curious ears lying around was too big. They tried to be discreet, arriving and leaving separately, and not staying glued together all day long. Paul thought they did a pretty good job at it – looking at John’s imperturbable face, he would almost himself think nothing at all had changed. That they were just regular bandmates. Although he was sure George and Ringo were observant enough to notice how more comfortable they were together compared to the previous weeks. The knowing glances he had intercepted his way were eloquent enough.

Other occasions they spent apart during that month of August were Paul’s fortnight appointments with his therapist. This time, he knew better than to stop going. Even if he felt good - even elated when his anxiety was sleeping -, he knew his mind was under a lot of stress and some problems needed to be addressed for him to be fully healthy and functioning. He did not want to repeat the mistakes of the past, now less than ever. It crossed his mind a couple of times, looking at John when they were eating together on the couch or walking in the park with Martha, that therapy would do probably some good to his boyfriend (his boyfriend!) too, but he didn’t know how to breach the topic. If it was his place at all to suggest it – or if John would take the suggestion well at all. For some reason, he doubted the other man would be open to the idea right away_. With time, maybe_, his mind tried to reassure him. The problem was, Paul _had no time_. Or if he had any, he was not aware of it – which in the end led to the same result. More than ever, he needed to live in the moment. But still, words were hard, especially when they concerned subjects as touchy as mental health and feelings for a Liverpudlian man of the 1960s. Paul still felt torn between his desire to live in the moment and the feeling of duty to make sure tragedies of the past would not be reiterated. He was now growing conscious that just like Ringo had told him, he was not responsible for everything that happened even if he knew about it, but the nagging anxiety of failing people was still constantly lurking in his head and his heart.

Starting with Brian and the looming ‘anniversary’ of his death.

Brian was one of the only persons that made them leave their love cocoon. Ringo and Paul had encouraged him for months now to be more mindful of his health, and thankfully Brian was open enough to actually listen to their advice. John was more attentive too ever since Paul had told him about Brian’s previous untimely death.

Thus they went to see him together at his house, to try and coax him into talking about his feelings and his anxieties. When he welcomed them in, Brian looked tired, and a bit worried, but his smile and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes were genuine. They went to his garden and sat around the wood table with cold drinks and sunglasses on. There were several squirrels on his property and Martha was in heaven, running wildly around and barrelling into Paul’s legs every once in a while to get a pat on the head. When John pulled the chair for Paul before going for his own (in a chivalresque move that made Paul both embarrassed and infinitely pleased), Brian’s eyes tracked it and his smile turned more insightful.

“The Marta sun looks good on you two,” Brian started, smooth as ever. “Was it a nice holiday?”

“It actually was, yeah,” Paul humoured him with a smile as he caught his cold glass between his over-heating hands.

He caught a heavy glance from John, whose sandaled foot was resting flush against Paul’s, a steady presence. John’s fingers were fidgeting and Paul gave him a mischievous wink.

“And we’re back together,” He told Brian, turning his head back to him and taking a sip of his drink.

Brian’s whole face turned fonder. He leaned back on his chair and opened his ribcage for a deep breath. He actually looked relieved.

“I’m happy to hear that. It was disheartening to watch the two of you look so miserable apart. You’ve always seemed stronger together - be it as a couple or not, actually. I believe you’re a good influence for each other.”

“Yeah well, he can’t get rid of me that easily anyway,” John tacked on.

“And I’ve never wanted to,” Paul retorted, raising his eyebrows at his lover.

John pursed his lips but chuckled in defeat. He gulped down his drink and Paul was glad to see the pinkness of his cheeks. He looked a bit red in the face to start with, visibly struggling with the heat. Paul couldn’t resist and softly caressed John’s hand with his pinkie finger. This was just Brian, after all, and he needed – and _wanted_ – to learn to be more at ease around his close ones. John’s smile in return sure was worth it.

“I have to say I was a bit worried at first that this feud of yours would endanger the band, but you have managed it with particular discretion, if I may say so,” Brian surprisingly said. “I’m sorry to have underestimated your professionalism.”

The trees close to them were swinging with the summer breeze and the whistling sound was oddly appeasing. Brian looked peaceful here, and more honest about his own feelings than Paul was used to see him. It was not much, but it made the moment feel precious. John’s hand settled comfortably on his thigh and this time, it didn’t make Paul uneasy.

“You have nothing to say sorry for,” Paul assured Brian. “You’ve been more understanding and supportive that I could have ever hoped for.”

He glanced at John and spread an arm behind his chair, his chilly fingers resting lightly against John’s hot nape. John shot him a grateful grin.

“Than _we_ could ever have hoped for,” Paul amended, his eyes not leaving John’s face.

“See, he’s already getting soft on me,” John mused as he turned to Brian, his head pointing at Paul.

Paul taped the back of his head with his hand in retaliation.

“Twat,” He said with a laugh.

John and Brian both chuckled along. It was crazy how freeing it was to joke about their relationship around _someone else_. Someone they trusted with their lives, and who was LGBTQ too. Paul never thought much about the idea of the LGBTQ community, but now it felt like he was getting accepted into it, somehow. Even more, _he_ himself accepted it. He admitted the fact that he was now, by all means, a part of it. It was a weird feeling and it left him a bit disoriented, on the verge of uneasy, but… it was also deeply gratifying. Reassuring, in a way.

“Anyway, how are you?” Paul asked Brian, willing not to get lost in his own thoughts. “Found another band to manage yet?”

Brian smiled and shook his head, looking out on his tidy garden.

“I think I’m good with the ones I have already. I’m probably going to have grey hair soon, to be honest.”

“You should take care of yourself too, you know, sometimes,” John said, squinting through his sunglasses. “Don’t let work get the better of you. Not worth it.”

“Oh do not worry about that,” Brian answered secretively.

Paul eyed him, the strong grip on his glass and the elusiveness of his gaze.

“Just… you know, be careful with medication, yeah?” He asked unable to stop himself.

John froze a bit next to him and Brian looked a bit taken aback.

“I’m not sure what you’re implying but I’m not an addict, Paul. I don’t know why you would target this suggestion at me. And I think I am old enough to know what I should take or not.”

Paul bit his lip, stopping himself from being more assertive. There was no need starting a fight, especially not if Brian felt cornered. The wind suddenly sounded a bit more menacing, even though it was blowing the same way it had all afternoon. John’s hand squeezed his thigh. After a moment, Brian sighed, his gaze floating up to the sky and coming back to stare into Paul’s soul.

“And I most of all hope you’re listening to yourself right now, and that you are being more cautious with your consumption,” He said. “If you want to know, actually, your scare with barbiturates last year has left me a bit… rattled. But, um… Mmh. Sorry, I shouldn’t be talking about this with you. This is irrelevant.”

“You should though,” John intervened, his voice gentle but firm. “I think Paul’s… accident, has influenced all of us, a bit. At least I know _I_ don’t see ‘the drugs’ the same way I did before. And… you know, we’ve talked about it, Paul and I. And… He’s got… I wouldn’t overlook his wisdom, if I were you. He’s got good advice. About healthy stuff and all that. Made me see clearer about some things.”

He was not looking at Brian, playing with the melted condensation of his glass that had formed a little puddle on the table. Paul’s ears were ringing and he was staring, dumbfounded, at John’s profile. Compliments from John were so rare he could count them on his fingers, but compliments out of nowhere, _in front of someone else_? That was a whole new level of novelty. So much that his insides squirmed and his neck burned a bit.

“Guess I can thank you for that, love,” John added, looking up at Paul.

Paul gaped at him, his mind reeling a bit. It was very strange to have his (positive!) influence be acknowledged this way. John gave him a small smile and turned back to Brian.

“Anyway, it’s like I told you on the phone. You don’t need to carry the whole world on your shoulders. I think I talk for both of us when I say you can always come and talk to us. We know you’re under a lot of stress, and we know you tend to take anxiolytics as if it were sweets. Don’t deny it, I’ve seen you. And… you know, I don’t know if you’re aware of that wild concept, but you’re allowed to feel tired too, sometimes. Don’t do like our Macca here who can’t accept that being tired doesn’t equal weakness. Be smarter than him.”

“I beg your pardon?!” Paul let out in a huff, coming back from his daze straight away.

John’s lips tremored but he kept his gaze fixed on their manager, who giggled quietly.

“Thank you, John,” Brian answered. “That’s lovely of you to say.”

He cleared his throat, and when he looked up again and saw the two of them staring at him, he started talking again. Words seemed to come out with pain and difficulty, and it dawned on Paul just how hard it really was for his friend to talk about himself.

“I’m being careful, do not worry. I know what’s at stakes. You should know I’m a level-headed person, by now. So… ever since your overdose, I have actually tried to diminish my own… to regulate my approach to medication – and so even when things are a little heavy. Believe me. You don’t need to worry.”

They let the conversation die for a while, happy to just enjoy the welcomed light breeze and a second round of lemonade. They got up at some point to go watch the rose bushes Brian had had planted (John was yawning exaggeratedly the whole time but still remained next to Paul with a hand on his waist) and it delighted Paul to notice some rest had settled upon the features of Brian’s face. They ended up standing a bit randomly in the garden to talk about nothing and anything, and John always was touching Paul’s body in one way or another. He remembered finding it a bit annoying when John used to do it with Yoko, but now that it was happening to him, he had to admit it was kinda nice. He felt anchored, supported. He knew there was a good part of fear in it, and that their making-up was still too fresh in both their minds for their behaviours to be normal, but he found that he quite enjoyed it nevertheless. They were standing near Paul’s car and laughing at Martha who had twigs all over her fur, ready to bid Brian goodbye when their manager asked, all casual:

“Oh, have you seen Bernice lately? I heard she’s working on a new exhibition in the US.”

Paul froze and stood up from where he was squatting next to Martha. Gaping, he turned to John who looked back at him with equal stupor on his face. Paul struggled to get his mind back into working. He had barely seen her two or three times ever since they had signed the contract, but he still felt bad for forgetting about her altogether. John coming back into his life had sort of eradicated every other worry.

“I… No. I, um, I had a bit forgotten about her if I have to be honest,” He finally answered, looking at both Brian and John.

Brian studied his face, seemingly lost in thoughts.

“I haven’t heard of any word about you or John in a while. Even though you haven’t seen her.”

“What are you getting at?” Paul squinted at him.

“Maybe… it’s still possible to call the whole thing off. There’s no time minimum to the contract, I made sure of that.”

Brian gazed intently into Paul’s eyes, who felt like the sun had suddenly got even hotter on him. Well aware of the sweat tricking down his back, Paul turned to John, who was keeping his head down and was kicking at the gravel of Brian’s alleyway, looking a bit subdued.

“What do you think?” He asked.

John didn’t react until Paul nudged his elbow. He abruptly looked up, clearly surprised.

“_Me_?”

“No, no, Martha,” Paul joked. “She’s of very good advice.”

When John huffed, Paul nudged him again, getting softer.

“Of course, you, silly. Do you think we should call it off…?”

John remained silent, his apt eyes staring into Paul’s. Brian purposefully turned his full body to Martha to pet her, giving them a semblance of privacy.

“I thought you were scared about rumours?” John simply said, his voice low but even.

“I am,” Paul confirmed, feeling vulnerable – especially with Brian standing two feet from them. “But… I don’t want to lose any time I could spend with you. Since… you know.”

John studied him a bit longer, then slowly nodded.

“Just promise me you’ll be extra careful and you won’t say anything stupid or controversial to anyone we don’t know,” Paul added with more emotion. “Don’t come out to everyone with a message in the sky.”

At that John rolled his eyes and a ghost of a smile graced his lips.

“Drama queen,” He huffed quietly.

Paul giggled and briefly took John’s hand to squeeze it before turning back to Brian.

“Can I call you later to see how you can terminate the contract? I need to phone Bernice, too. I would hate to lose her as a friend, she really is lovely.”

“Knowing her, I really doubt it will change her sentiments towards you,” Brian reassured him with a smile, stepping closer to them again. “Rest assured.”

Paul gave him a friendly pat on the arm and went to the driver’s door of his car. Martha followed him right away.

“See you soon then, yeah?” John said, going to the other side of the car too.

“Sure,” Brian nodded, sticking his hands into his pockets as he watched them get into the car. “You have the film soon! I’ll come visit you on set, if you don’t mind.”

John leant over Paul to speak through his rolled down window, having to push Martha’s head away in the process.

“Actually yes, we do mind, we don’t want any distrac—”

“Thank you, Brian,” Paul cut him off with a laugh, pushing his face away. “Can’t wait for you to witness us creating history with the next Oscar-winning film.”

Brian laughed heartily and waved them goodbye as Paul drove around and down the lane.

The prospect of seeing Brian’s face during the filming of _Magical Mystery Tour _made Paul’s heart a little lighter. It had been Paul’s idea to have Brian more involved in it this time. As a rule, Brian had never intervened artistically in their work – that position was reserved to George Martin in the studio. When Paul had asked their manager his opinion about the film a few months prior, Brian had first been a bit shy and restrained, and it had taken a bit of persuading from Ringo and the others too to have him agree to actually _give_ his opinion. And without surprise, his first advice had been to hire a real screenwriter, which they did. They had kept the basic idea of the movie of a bus tour reserving magical surprises to its guests, but this time, their roles were more specific, and the guests of the bus were more consistent. The original idea had come from Paul with Ringo’s approval, drawing inspiration from a recent movie on themselves (well, the ‘original’ movie would only come out 52 years later so it was not really plagiarism, was it?), but still Paul had been significantly less involved in its writing this time. In a way though, the band as a whole had been more in harmony about the writing of the script. John had given a lot more ideas, spurred on by the knowledge that the first time around none of them had been very happy filming it. Ringo and George had been present at every meeting too, even though George had complained about it the whole time. Paul was actually quite excited about this new occasion, and the fact that he was now back with John was a huge relief as well. Filming for three weeks in the atmosphere of their break-up would not have been funny for _anyone_.

Paul was a bit sad at the idea of losing the first version of the _Magical Mystery Tour_ they had made – he had poured a lot of heart and investment in it, no matter what anyone had said! – but they had agreed with Ringo that this time was the occasion to create something a bit more… coherent, maybe. They had told their bandmates about the harsh critics and the overall complicated time they had all had filming it the first time around. If they could have more fun doing it this time and receive a better reception at the same time, they might as well try.

He could only hope he would stay long enough to finish it.

When Cynthia and Julian finally came back from their holiday, John made a point of gathering the four of them together for dinner. Paul was horribly uncomfortable – even more when the memory of his last encounter with Cynthia came back to him – but went along nevertheless, knowing John’s needs deserved to be listened to. They did it at the Lennons’ household, and Paul brought Martha, a rose for Cynthia and a small flute for Julian. He was bursting with nerves on his way in, but still tried to be his most charming self. Cynthia was embarrassed too, clearly, and it took her a good half-hour to actually look at him in the eyes. Thankfully Julian was happy and chatty, telling them all about his holiday and trying on the flute (although that last part was a little less pleasant). John had bought take-out dinner from an Indian restaurant, and Paul was reassured to see Cynthia had not taken any part in preparing the evening – and felt a bit guilty for assuming John might have the audacity to ask her to do anything for it. John looked oddly cheerful and carefree the whole time, joking and playing with Julian; it only dawned on Paul halfway through the meal that it had to be freeing for him, to be able to be fully himself with his close family. Even though Cynthia and he were separated, they remained close, and that dinner made Paul realize just how much. John was agreeable with her, thoughtful – more so than Paul had seen him be in a really long while. Paul still caught Cynthia looking longingly at John a couple of times when his head was turned, but all in all, she seemed pretty fine. The night went on without any incident, and even if neither Paul nor John made any remark about their relationship (nor did they act any differently than usual), the knowledge of it still was clear to all of them. It weighed a bit on them, or at least on Paul, but it didn’t feel as much of a sword of Damocles as he had expected.

It still came as a shock when in the middle of dessert, John asked Paul if he wanted to sleepover.

Paul nearly choked on his Kulfi and couldn’t stop the frightened look he sent to Cynthia across from him. Her cheeks were crimson and she avoided his gaze, but except for that she did not look particularly surprised. Julian, on the other hand, loudly let out his opinion and turned excitedly to Paul who was sitting next to him (to the child’s specific demand).

“Yaaaaay! Can he sleep in my room? With Martha?”

“Sorry lad, but he’ll sleep in mine,” John told him with an amused smile. “You can keep the dog, though.”

“I don’t—I don’t know if that’s a good—” Paul started, feeling his own neck growing hotter.

“Cyn is alright with it, we’ve talked about it,” John interrupted him – then, to her: “Right?”

Now beet red, Cynthia nodded and finally looked up at Paul.

“Yes, yeah… that’s true.”

Paul’s stomach twisted at her quiet voice.

“Cyn, you don’t have to accept this,” He told her with conviction. “It’s too… I mean, I don’t want to push it, you know? This is your house, I can’t just—John, you see what I mean, right?! We can just go to your other house. This is too…”

John frowned, and Paul could immediately tell he was miffed about it.

“Too what? Too early? Too inappropriate? We’ve been together for nearly a year. Sort of. Cyn and I split up a year and a half ago. We have separate rooms, there’s nothing unclear between us. And I’m thinking about selling the other house, I can’t dig a pool there and since you won’t see Bernice anymore, I figured, you know. It’s better if I don’t have two houses. I don’t see why you’re getting all uptight about it.”

Paul grimaced, not wanting to provoke a fight (even less in front of Julian) but still finding the whole concept disrespectful. As if she had read his mind – and Paul wouldn’t have been surprised if she had – Cynthia intervened:

“Paul, it’s… I appreciate you being so mindful about me, really. Thank you. But you don’t need to worry. John is right. I did agree with it, because I want my family to stay together. Maybe that makes me an idiot, I don’t know. All I know is that you being here makes Julian and John happy, and they’re my family, no matter what. Anything— or anyone that makes them happy is fine by me. And it’s… I won’t say it’s not weird, because I uh… it’s hard to wrap my head around… _this_, sometimes. It’s not what I had expected at first. But…”

She trailed off, sighed then chuckled to herself. Paul saw the faint crinkles around her eyes and mouth that were not there when he had first met her, all those years ago.

"I mean, I _know_ you,” She went on. “I’ve known you for so long, and you’ve always been such a good friend to me. This doesn’t… I mean, I still really like you. And you can… you _can_ sleep here, sometimes. If you want to. I know my place, and I know yours, and I know that if everything goes well – and I sincerely hope for you two that it will – you’ll keep this place for a good while, so. It’s only logical.”

By the end of her speech, Paul was downright emotional and discovered his voice was gone for a few seconds. He glanced at John, who was (proudly?) smiling at Cynthia. Julian was still calmly eating his ice cream, having lost all interest in the conversation.

“I… wow,” Was all he managed to let out at first. “That’s… thank you. Really. I can’t believe how strong you are.”

“I’m no saint,” Cynthia chuckled. “Believe me, I didn’t agree right away. I did need some time to—_process_.”

“Still, that’s—with _everything_, that’s still so kind and selfl—”

“Alright alright, don’t go crying on her,” John said, leaning his elbows on the table. “She’s an angel, we all know that. Will you sleep over tonight or not?”

Paul looked at him and bit his inner cheek.

“I need to leave early tomorrow morning,” He finally answered. “The cats will be hungry.”

The giant grin on John’s face alone was worth the embarrassment of the situation a hundred times over.

The night went on without disturbance, and once they all said goodnight to Julian and Cynthia disappeared in her room, John gave one of his t-shirts to Paul and they just… went to bed. It was nothing much, but John’s giddiness was contagious and Paul could never resist the other man’s smile for very long. Just to be able to hold John in his arms and to kiss him goodnight felt like both a miracle and a transgression. Without surprise, the following morning was awkward, but it was manageable. As a tacit rule, Paul and John behaved like friends (which they were, at the core); the only real difference was that instead of sleeping in the main bedroom, John was sleeping in the guest room with Paul.

As time passed, Paul understood the real meaning of John’s invitations to sleep over at his family house. It was symbolic more than anything. John kept on inviting Paul over in the day but mainly when Cynthia was not there, and they only stayed together at night in Paul’s apartment. The symbol was strong, though: Paul was not only tolerated, but he was fully accepted into the family. It was not something he knew he needed, but it still made him wonder about his own family. They had no idea about their relationship, and up until then Paul had never even considered telling them about it. When he noticed it was not a question of familiarity (he was close with his dad and his brother), he realized that in a way, before their break-up, he had not _really_ considered the future with John. Not in a permanent way, anyway. Sure, he had wondered how they would be able to live and build things together, but the thoughts had been vague, fleeting. They had been more about the question of homosexuality and homophobia than anything else. He had not reflected about John’s position into his own family, his own life. The cruel thing was that even if he thought his family could accept John, there was no point in telling them now. As far as he knew, he might be gone in a few weeks, leaving a heart-broken John and a clueless Paul behind. There was no need to add any more confusion for his dad in the middle. However, even if his reasoning was sound and logical (and John agreed with him), it still pained him not to be able to share the principal source of happiness in his current life with the people he loved the most.

He was surprised to see how smoothly John settled back into his life – almost as if their three months apart had never existed. Paul had expected some awkwardness and a few days of acclimatization, but there was none of that. If anything, John was only more openly affectionate, and Paul figured it had to be because he himself was, too. The kisses in the morning were Paul’s favourite part of the day: getting to make John’s grumpy, sleepy face turn all soft and mushy with one single kiss was like a true superpower he was decided to take full advantage of. John was becoming a real cuddle monster, falling over Paul at every random moment (when Paul was waiting for the water to boil, when he would come out of the bathroom, when he would sit on the couch or even just when he was innocently walking by through the flat) and Paul was not one to complain. They snuggled more and laughed more but most importantly, they _talked_ more. Even though they still remained platonic outside of the flat, they were close and addressed every topic without any restrictions. It was odd to realize the stark difference there was between the way they had behaved before their break-up and how they behaved now, and Paul saw once again just how right John had been to call him out on it. They were finally back to being a team, more in tune than ever.

The new rhythm of his life would have been a true love bubble hadn’t it been for the anguish that got Paul’s throat shut every morning before he opened his eyes, scared to discover in which room he was. He tried not to think about it during the day and was doing an okayish job at that, but at night, his anxiety rose and peaked and left him sleeping very little and not very well. The only times he slept well were when John was over: Paul would half wake up and have John cuddled up against him, and just to feel his heat was enough to lull him back to sleep with a more regular cardiac rhythm. He would wake up five, ten times a night, but it was still better than the ones he spent alone with his pets on the bed to feel more weighted down. During the day, he tried his best to forget about the inevitability of his departure and to enjoy moments to their last drops. It had been his motto his whole life, but now it felt even more critical. Like a last day of freedom that happened to be renewed every day – for now.

Even if Paul was thrilled to enjoy his newfound boyfriend in peace, he was excited to get back to the studio. He knew that when he would get back in 2019 he would miss it all terribly and intended to make as much of it as he could _while_ he still could. It was going to be easier to work now that John and he had cleared the air between them, and they had made the decision to let the others know they were back together if the occasion rose but that they would not make a fuss of it. They didn’t want to go out of their way to hide their relationship anymore. Paul was still scared of the opinions of George Martin and of the other employees of the EMI studios, but he was tired of lying. He guessed it was selfish, to alter people’s vision of ‘Paul’ if he happened to leave soon and if young Paul came back in his place. Young Paul would be disturbed to suddenly see everyone ‘believe’ he was dating John. The reservation he had for his family was less strong about the studio people because these people saw John and him every day, and controlling everything they said or did while at work was tiring before – and sounded even more exhausting now. This probably wasn’t fair but Paul was too tired to work on what ifs. He wanted to live in the moment, and in the moment he was dating John, proud to be doing so, and he didn’t want to hide it in his everyday life anymore. If there were to be consequences for young Paul, well… so be it.

When Paul arrived in Abbey Road, none of his bandmates had arrived yet so he took time to discuss freely with George the Second (as John often called him). He genuinely liked him and as they talked, he realized how sad he would be if knowing about his sexuality would lead to any change between them. Not that he expected George to react badly – but he didn’t know what to expect, was the thing. George was open-minded, and quite progressive, and had always accepted Brian with opened arms, but… but Paul still had a seed of freezing fear burning in the pit of his stomach.

Ringo arrived next, looking tense (they were both watching the days getting closer to Brian’s previous death with an anxious eye) but tanned. He was an enormous support for Paul, and they often called each other when they remembered something from the future they didn’t want to forget or when they needed to remember something from the past that had vanished in the depths of their memory. He was Paul’s brother, in a different way from George. They had shared a lot of events and memories that had brought them closer in a way no one else could understand. Paul was sure that their shared grief over their two bandmates played a big role in their relationship too. It seemed to him that Ringo had the same kind of ‘awed disbelief’ attitude he had towards John and George, a tendency to cherish every moment and to do the best possible to be more open, more candid and to correct past obliviousness.

When George arrived, they were already setting up their instruments. The young dad was a little wearied from taking care of his growing, bubbly child but he looked quite happy to be here too. Paul knew he had been working on new songs during their time off even though he had not shared them with any of them yet – at least not with Paul, with whom he had not written again. John arrived soon after and Paul immediately met his eyes, sending him a tender smile. George Martin was talking to other people a bit further, but George was next to him as the both of them circled Ringo’s drums – where Ringo had already taken place. John approached, quickly saluted the other two boys and softly squeezed Paul’s wrist, his thumb caressing Paul’s skin for a few seconds. He then went on to say hi to the others and even though Paul felt George’s heavy gaze on him, he chose to just watch John go around then come back up to them. He gave another smile to Paul and turned to Ringo who was looking expectantly at him behind his drums.

“Were you working already?” John asked him, holding onto the nearest perch – which also happened to be the one Paul was holding onto.

“Uh… no, no, just talking,” Ringo said, a bit taken aback.

His gaze purposeful set on Ringo, Paul inched his hand up, closer to John’s on the perch and his belly did a little somersault when he felt John’s fingers meeting him in the middle. He caught George’s gaze zeroing in on their fingers – and John did, too.

“What’ you looking at?” John asked, blunt on purpose.

George looked up, and his puzzled expression conveyed his dilemma between asking and not asking. He sent a quick look to the other men chatting farther away in the room.

“Nothing,” He finally answered, his voice very quiet. “Just. You look very… couple-y.”

As Ringo turned wide warning eyes to George, John sent a steady look to Paul. Paul could read the question in his eyes, so he simply nodded with a small grin. The whole exchange had taken but a second. John turned back to George.

“Well, that’s very observant of you since we actually are a couple,” John proudly retorted, loud and clear.

_Very_, loud and clear.

There was a moment of stunned silence where everyone just sort of froze. George Martin, Geoff and the two other engineers in the room, John and Ken, had all turned to look at them. They looked a bit confused and were frowning at various degrees. Ringo glanced uncertainly at them until he turned to Paul and John. A wide smile slowly took over his face.

“You’re… really?” He asked, almost incredulously.

Paul sent another glance back to John, who was properly grinning at him with a twinkle in his eyes.

“Uh… Yeah…” Paul shrugged, downplaying it even though his cheek-hurting smile probably gave him away.

Then, turning a bit more fully to the others who were still staring at them from behind, frozen in their discussion.

“We uh… John and I are romantically involved,” He calmly declared – and he was surprised at himself to notice he barely needed to brace himself. “I know it’s surprising, but, um, it’s not a joke, we’re very serious about it. So, here’s that.”

“And obviously we would appreciate it very much if you kept that information within the walls of this building, or else Brian is going to come and kill every single one of you in your sleep,” John added easily.

Paul observed the men’s faces and if astonishment was clear on their expressions, there was no fiercely negative emotions to be detected (yet) so he guessed that was positive. John’s joke even earned them a couple of giggles.

“Oh and please don’t be homophobic arseholes, accessorily,” John went on. “We’re still the same people we were before you knew we like to sleep together. Now, thank you for your attention and let’s get to work, yeah?”

He shot a far-too-amused glance at Paul, who merely sent him a fond smile. He knew John had downplayed it for his sake and that if Paul hadn’t been there, he would probably have used a much… cruder expression. Paul was distracted when George arrived in his personal space and gave him a quick one-armed hug with a huge smile on his face and an equally smiling Ringo just next to him.

“You sly bastards,” George whistled. “You love dramatic outings, don’t you?”

“I admit I really did not expect that when I came in this morning,” Ringo added with a chuckle. “But I’m really, really happy for you, lads.”

He squeezed both John and Paul’s arms and Paul felt warm all over.

“I was greatly inspired by Macca’s throbbing speech in Malta,” John said with a mocking heartfelt expression, causing Paul to lightly punch his arm. “Such passion, such eloquence.”

“That’s hardly the same, though,” Paul countered, his ego waking up. “What I did was a public love declaration. That’s more, gutsy, please. You can at least give me some credit for that.”

John looked at him with bored eyes.

“Yeah yeah, whatever I love you too, blabla,” He deadpanned.

Paul giggled and turned his head to the rest of the room, where several pairs of eyes were awkwardly turning to the floor. He tried to meet George Martin’s eyes but the other man was looking around him and drying his hands on his hips as if he was desperate to find something to do with himself. Paul pushed away the pang that hit his heart and cleared his throat.

“So. Like John said, shall we get to work?” He asked to everyone.

The lads immediately approved, and the general commotion that followed everyone’s going to their places to work on a first melody line of the new song (well… as much as ‘Your Mother Should Know’ could be considered new) distracted Paul from George Martin long enough for him to walk up to the stairs. His heart squeezing his chest even harder, Paul gazed at John for strength, patted his arm and went to get his bass. He was sure he would have time to clear away any awkwardness later on.

The moment came later than Paul thought: after a long session, they all said goodbye and took off to their respective homes and Paul still hadn’t been able to talk to George Martin alone for one second. John was waiting for him at the door of the studio (they had planned to eat together even though it was late) but Paul, who was still sitting behind the piano, solely glanced up at the engineering room. He saw that George Martin was still there, so he signalled to John to go ahead, that he would join him in a moment. John frowned but shrugged it away, sticking his hands in his pockets and leaving with Geoff. Once calm had settled upon the room again, Paul breathed deeply to brace himself and got up, dusted off his pants and went for the stairs. Each step felt heavier, as if his legs were turning to lead and the stairs were getting harder and harder as they went up. The door was open but he still knocked against the frame. George was sitting behind the control panel, his chin propped on his fist and the other hand holding some paper, and turned his eyes to him.

“Could we have a chat? Or… am I bothering…?” Paul asked, almost shyly.

He was nervous in ways he had not been with his bandmates, or even all his other friends in Malta. He did not quite know what it was about George the Second that made him want to earn and keep his respect. His _faith_. Paul’s throat was even dry.

But George merely pouted, shook his head and showed the vacant seat next to him. A bit relieved, Paul went to sit down and had to stop himself from making the office chair rotate out of nervousness. He clasped his hands together to prevent any embarrassing gesture and smiled tightly at the other man, who responded with the ghost of a smile of his own.

“I like what we did today,” Paul started, hoping he sounded casual enough. “I think the chorus came out good with what you suggested for the organ.”

“Yes, I believe this one should be wrapped up quickly,” George answered with a nod, looking idly at the panel in front of him. “The overdubs shouldn’t take long.”

“Yeah, just a day, tops.”

They both looked at the panel for a moment, and Paul was getting frustrated at himself for being so helpless and awkward. George breathed deeply and put both hands on the armrests of his chair, as if ready to get up.

“Well. I think I’m going to head home too.”

Panic suddenly rising to the surface, Paul blurted out:

“It’s not gonna change anything, you know. Really.”

George froze and sent a frowning, puzzled look at him.

“John and I,” Paul clarified. “It’s not… I mean, it’s been a while already, and it hasn’t influenced our work. We’re still… I—you know, it doesn’t change anything for the band.”

George simply looked at him for a moment, unreadable, then carefully said:

“I didn’t think it would.”

Paul nodded and licked his lips, a bit frenetic.

“Your romantic relationships have never affected your work ever since I’ve known you,” George went on, still with this cautious tone that was driving Paul a bit mad. “Both of you. I trust you to keep your personal issues out of the studio in any case. Here too.”

“Okay, okay, good. I just… I don’t want you to think. You know. That it’s jeopardizing anything.”

“It’s not my place to think _anything_ of it. I’m your co-worker, not your parent.”

“You’re my friend, too,” Paul tacked on, staring straight at him.

This was important to him, and he needed the other man to _see_ that importance. To feel it too, in a way. Luckily, George was a clever man and pulled an almost rueful smile.

“What do you want me to say, then?”

Paul discreetly bit the inside of his cheek and quickly calculated the best action to take.

“I’m not sure,” He confessed. “That you don’t see me any differently, I guess.”

George smiled again; the sincerity Paul could read in it this time warmed his heart a little.

“I don’t,” He said – and Paul felt his lungs get a little lighter. “Not really. It is a bit… Let’s say that yes, I did not expect it.” He chuckled, dragging Paul along. “At all. Maybe I should have, maybe that makes me completely blind. To be honest, it makes me question everything I might have missed, a bit. I feel a little taken aback. But it’s… I don’t have any judgment to make, Paul, and I would never. I hope you know that.”

Paul gauged his gaze to determine how much he believed that, and was relieved to only find sincerity in it. He breathed out and was stunned to notice how shaky his breath actually was.

“That’s good to hear,” He simply said with a smile.

George grinned back and pushed himself off of the chair for real this time.

“Go home, Paul. It’s been a long day.”

“Yeah,” Paul confirmed, getting up too. “Good night, then. See you tomorrow?”

He hadn’t meant for it to be a question, but it came out that way nevertheless. George briefly patted him on the shoulder.

“Of course. I’ll be there.”

When Paul finally joined John who was smoking outside (and threw the cigarette away the second he saw him arrive), he gave him a genuine smile. The August night was nicely chill and quiet, only crickets answering to the pounding of his feet on the sidewalk. Paul locked his arm with John’s and led them towards his car in an upbeat pace, even swaying their arms a little to get a laugh out of John. It worked: John chuckled and raised his eyebrows at him.

“Staying late got you happy, then?” He asked, bumping his shoulder into Paul’s.

“I was chatting with George M. It was really nice.”

“Chatting about our gayness?”

Paul snorted and looked away not to smile too much, unravelling his arm with John on the way.

“Sort of,” He however admitted. “He seems alright with it.”

“Of course he is,” John replied without hesitation.

And it dawned on Paul how right he was.

_Of course he is_.

On August 27th, Ringo phoned so early that he woke Paul up. It sent a jolt to Paul’s heart and triggered a cold sweat down his back, but he was reassured right away by his bandmate. Ringo explained he had not slept a wink and needed someone to talk to in order to stop himself from expecting the worse. Paul could not blame him, as he had barely slept himself. John was not even there, as George and he had gone to meet the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi (journey that Ringo and Paul had both chosen to pass). They knew that Brian was at Kingsley Hill with friends, and when Paul had called him the night before (feigning to have a random question to ask), he had seemed pretty alright. Paul remembered he had been in his London home when he died, so he could only guess things had gone differently this time. He chose to see it as a good sign.

He tried his best to keep himself busy during the day. Since he kept his life as simple as possible, his flat itself helped providing distractions: groceries, cleaning and changing sheets already took some time. Added to that a couple of walks for Martha, a lunch with Ringo and a couple of friends and some browsing in bookstores led him to the end of the day and still no life-changing phone call to report. He went to bed that night with a rock-hard knot in his stomach, and stayed on the phone with John for more than an hour spewing nonsense just not to let his thoughts and worry derail too much.

The next day was pretty much a rinse and repeat, caught between obligations, socialization and other welcomed distractions. The main difference was that with every hour that passed without any disturbance, his breathing got a little easier, a little lighter. Being so tense made Paul even more talkative and energetic than usual; he was vaguely aware that it was bound to weary the ones around him but he did not have enough strength left in him to fix it. When the evening came, his nerves were skyrocketing. John was to come back from Bangor around nine and come to Paul’s directly to spend the night together and Paul would be lying if he said he was not yearning for him. He had had him on the phone merely two hours before, but seeing him in the flesh was on a whole other level. When he was with Nancy or even Linda, he had taken the habit of spending every single night with them apart from very rare exceptions, so it was weird for him to have to adapt to a rhythm that was pretty much the opposite of it. Nights spent with John were few and precious, so few that it still regularly struck him how odd it was to feel the same longing and affection for his friend as he had once felt for his wives. Sometimes, for a second or two, he saw John with eyes as old as time, viewing who he was to him, who he had been for all these years and everything they had been through together – and apart. It blew his mind how far they had come.

He was preparing a load of clothes to wash in the bathroom when the doorbell rang, Martha’s barking following close. He let the clothes drop and got up in a flash, his heart missing a beat. In a few long strides he was in the hallway with his hand on the doorknob, keeping Martha from getting out. He was welcomed right away by a crooked smile and askew round glasses.

“About time,” Paul said, his smile threatening to split his cheeks in half.

“I’m not even late!” John retorted with a fake-outraged face.

Paul stepped aside to let him in. John put his bag down and petted Martha who was so thrilled to see him that she kept jumping at him to try and lick his face. Then he turned back around to face Paul, who simply closed the door in his back. John opened his arms and let them fall in fists on his sides, loudly breathing out. 

“Well. Hi.”

Paul smiled even wider - if that was possible - and came closer to slide his arms around John’s waist.

“Hi,” He replied, his eyes locking in on John’s lips.

He kissed him, sweetly, and felt John’s hands slipping on his neck to bring him closer. They separated only to hug each other and Paul took all his time to breathe his lover in with no shame whatsoever, diving his nose deep into the hair of his nape. Coconut, light sweat and the leather from the taxi ride.

“Stop smelling me, you perv,” John chuckled, his laughter reverberating in both their chests.

“Never,” Paul dramatically replied, hugging him even tighter.

John laughed again and pulled away. One hand still on Paul’s shoulder, he brought the other one up to caress his eyebrow and his eyelid, forcing Paul to close his eye in the process.

“Are you trying to gouge my eye out,” Paul said.

John snorted.

“If it stops you from smelling my armpits—”

“As if you wouldn’t love that…!”

John laughed again and fully pulled away this time.

“I don’t have the strength to prove how wrong you are. My body is broken into a hundred pieces. It’s official, I hate flying.”

He kissed Paul once more, lingering for a second, before picking up his bag to bring it into the bedroom. Martha followed him hot on his tail, japing her happiness away. Paul pulled up the lock of the door and enjoyed the occasion to go straight to the bathroom to finish his chore, squatting in front of the washing machine. Through the ajar door linking the bathroom and the bedroom, he could hear John cooing at one of the cats – probably Melchior, judging from how absurdly high his voice sounded right now.

“Have you eaten yet?” Paul asked, a bit loud.

Between the ‘ooohs’ and ‘aaaaws’ that were definitely not addressed to Paul, John’s answer finally rose.

“Yeah, they served us good ol’ faggots on the plane. Felt like I was eating myself.”

Something got stuck in Paul’s throat, between an indignant snort and an irrepressible chuckle. He hesitated for a second, socks (that happened to be John’s) in his hands, then shoved them into the washing machine.

“I like the culinary meaning of the word better,” He simply said.

He kept sorting out which clothes to put into the machine and after a moment, the door from the bedroom was pushed and John came in. Paul barely looked up at the sound but soon enough, arms were sliding on his shoulders and heat was plastered across his back. Paul leaned into the touch, closing his eyes just a second to enjoy it, before going back to his task. Neither of them said anything for a while, John quietly humming from where he had put his head, atop Paul’s.

“Oh, do you have something you want to wash, while we’re at it?”

John shook his head – and Paul’s whole body along the way.

“Na, just got a couple of knickers. I’ll do it at mine. I didn’t even sweat.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” Paul chirped.

John softly tapped him on the back of the head but went back to snuggling him straight away. Paul was nearly done when John suddenly said, all casual:

“I got called a fairy the other day.”

Paul froze in his movements and turned in his embrace to face him with a frown on his forehead.

“By who?”

“Some lad at the airport,” John shrugged – but Paul could tell from his nervous gaze that he was not totally immune to the insult. “Didn’t like my clothes, I guess. Nothing unusual.”

Paul frowned deeper and opened his mouth to speak when John beat him to it.

“Speaking of it, how’s our favourite manager? Still alive, I reckon?”

Paul closed his mouth but raised an eyebrow.

“Smooth,” He answered. “But yes, Brian is fine. I think. At least he was when Ringo called him this afternoon.”

John got up with a grimace (as if _he_ was too old to squat like this) and Paul closed the lid of the machine before doing the same.

“I hope you two didn’t harass him with phone calls every two minutes.”

They both left the bathroom to go back to the bedroom, and Paul noticed at last that John had taken off his shoes at some point. Melchior was indeed spread out on the bed, stretching his little paws to call them into scratching his belly again. John responded to it right away, climbing onto the bed, his attention zeroing in on the cat in the fraction of a second.

“You make us sound like lunatics,” Paul protested, the tiniest bit offended. “I can perfectly keep an eye on him without stalking him. He didn’t notice anything, on the phone.”

He went to the bedside tables to light up the little lamps, and then to turn off the big one hanging from the ceiling. John turned his head to look at him, his hand still absently caressing the kitten.

“You don’t really need to convince me you’re good at lying,” He pointedly said when Paul was turning back to the bed.

Paul pursed his lips, his blood turning both cold and blazing in his veins. Were they really going to get into—

“Sorry. Low blow,” John suddenly amended, his cheeks getting redder under Paul’s very eyes.

Paul felt his own anger immediately dissipate away. Just looking into John’s soft eyes was enough to steady him back again.

“Yeah… I mean, I guess I deserved that.”

John merely looked at him, then shuffled on the bed and patted the space next to him. Paul was about to come and sit down when John suddenly got up, bumping into him.

“Oh wait, I forgot I needed to pee. Just a sec.”

He went running into the bathroom and left a chuckling Paul behind. Paul glanced at the cushion on the floor where Martha was laying, wondering briefly where Thisbe was, then sat down and let himself fall back on the bed with his arms spread out. Even though John was unbelievably comprehensive with it and never mentioned it (beside just now), Paul couldn’t help but think regularly about all the lying and the tension that had accumulated between them during all these months. It had to be lingering in John’s mind too, the hurt, the suspicion. He hoped he would one day earn John’s full trust again – and prayed it would happen before he got sent back to 2019. The thought of the future and its inevitability brought him back to the possible demise of Brian. Even if he had survived his previous death date, how could he be sure he would not be run over by a car the next day when crossing the road?

As his mood was getting a bit sour again, his stomach constricting, a flushing sound rose from the bathroom. Then there was water running, and finally John came back into the room with a glass of water that he sipped on before putting it down on his bedside table. Paul didn’t move from his spot, feeling suddenly drained from all the pressure that had built on over Brian’s fate. A few drops falling on his face made him grimace for a second and turn his head to look at John, behind him.

“What’s that face for?” John asked, taking off his t-shirt and throwing it away without looking.

Paul followed the flying shirt with his eyes but tried to ignore it, fleeting back to John’s face instead.

“Nothing, just… thinking about Brian, is all.”

John he took off his pants too, sitting on the bed for it, before throwing it on the dresser nearby – and blatantly missing it. Paul sighed this time. He didn’t mind messiness in a house, but this was full-on a declaration of war. John fully well Paul didn’t like having clothes discarded on the floor in the bedroom. Not when they didn’t have the excuse of getting caught up in the moment anyway.

“Oh, come on, please!”

John rolled his eyes and mimicked a ‘nya-nya-nya’ at him but still picked up the pants to put them properly on the dresser, making a point of throwing his hands in the air and raising an eyebrow at Paul afterwards.

“Don’t change the subject, puppy-man,” John said, sitting back on the bed and laying on his side next to Paul.

When he slipped his hand in Paul’s hair, Paul felt his eyes close on their own volition.

“Puppy-man?” He still hummed, eyes closed.

“Yes. You look all sad, like a sad puppy.”

Soft, wet lips landed on his cheekbone and Paul tried his best not to smile like an idiot again. It was not hard seeing how his stomach was still twisting.

“Brian didn’t die,” John said quietly. “He’s alright. Stop torturing yourself.”

“What if we didn’t change anything?” Paul countered, opening his eyes and turning his head to face John. “What if he still dies from something stupid, like Tara did?!”

John’s face got a bit darker, lying upside down from him.

“Paul. Stop. We’ve talked about it. There’s no use losing your sanity over this.”

“But—”

“And even if Brian does die, it won’t be your fault. Okay? Life’s unfair like that, sometimes. You may be from the future but you don’t have superpowers. So cut it out with the hero complex thing.”

Paul rose from his spot, frowning.

“I don’t have a hero complex!”

“Well, I’m seriously starting to believe that you do,” John countered with raised eyebrows, not moving from his lying position.

“Oh—sorry for trying to save your lives! How silly of me to want you all to live old and happy!”

At that, John finally rose too. His expression had gone from a bit provoking to very soft.

“It’s not,” He countered, quiet but firm. “It’s just not up to you.”

Paul didn’t answer, feeling a bit stupid but also, weirdly, reassured. John was (irritatingly) right; if he was not even able to control his time-travelling, how the hell could he expect to be able to control the lives of his loved ones? John reached out to grab Paul’s shirt and pull him towards him. Paul went along, a tad stiff, but still reciprocated John’s determined kiss. Its warmth had something very anchoring.

“You’ve done everything you could do, love,” John said when he pulled just a breath away from him. “And Brian is fine. Let’s count that as a win, yeah? And you know what, I can hire you as my personal bodyguard if it makes you feel better.”

Paul chuckled, snuggling into John’s face for a second like one of his cats would.

“I always dreamed of becoming Kevin Costner,” he joked.

“Who?” John chuckled with a tiny frown.

Paul shook his head with a small grin and heard Melchior jumping back on the bed with a little meow. He had not even noticed he had left.

“A child right now, probably. Don’t worry, by the time _that_ movie comes out, you’ll have looong forgotten my lame joke.”

“It does sound lame indeed.”

“Yeah yeah alright, no need to rub it in.”

John snorted and turned to pull the light sheet of the bed open. Paul’s nose scrunched at the thought that he hadn’t showered (even though he had been on the plane and all) but chose not to be an ‘annoying fucking uptight grand-father’ again and to let it slide. He knew John was not… fundamentally wrong, when he pointed it out, sometimes. It still hurt a bit (he had always been young in his mind anyway!) but he guessed it was for his own good. So he just put on his on pyjamas and brushed his teeth, went to the kitchen to check that the pets had enough food and water and came back to the bedroom a while later to see John under the cover, with no glasses and an opened book stuck close to his face.

“Where are your glasses?” Paul chuckled as he got into bed too.

“I’m tired of wearing ‘em,” John muttered, his eyes not leaving the (very close) page.

Once in the bed, Paul playfully pushed the book away and slid as smoothly as he could over John’s body, his elbows framing John’s surprised face.

“Hello, sir,” Paul declared with a ridiculous deep voice, dropping kisses on John’s neck and chest. “I’m ready to start my shift. I’m at your complete disposal.”

John burst out laughing, the sound vibrating with joy and sincerity.

“Okay, I take it back. Maybe _I _should be _your_ bodyguard. I’m clearly the most professional. Plus, I’m _extremely_ brave. I can fight my way out of trouble.”

“I can fight too,” Paul scoffed, pulling back and shuffling over John to get more comfortable (a.k.a. not to have John’s hipbones digging into him). “And I’m way better at surviving in the wild, too. You get scared by _cows_.”

“That’s because cows are _scary_,” John retorted as if the argument was undeniable. “And I’ll have you know I’m very adventurous. Living in the moment, all that.”

Paul snorted.

“That’s just not true. I’m more adventurous than you.”

John gaped for a moment, looking outraged, then schooled his face into some dignified expression.

“Well… I said ‘I love you’ first. Ha!”

“That’s because you loved me first,” Paul easily countered.

But John merely gave him a mysterious, weirdly proud smile.

“Mmh. Not so sure. I think you’ve loved me from the moment you met me, Macca.”

Paul looked at him, his bright eyes, his cocky grin. An image from their first meeting floated back to his mind, from all those years ago. He still remembered clearly his beery breath from that first July afternoon and a smile broke onto his face as he shook his head.

“You’re projecting, my sweet, poor darling. You’re confusing your burning adoration for me with reali— woah!”

John wrestled him into the sheets with a huge grin, effectively cutting him off mid-sentence. His wandering hands soon shut Paul’s talking off for good. He didn’t mind to stop thinking for a little while.

The seed of doubt had started to blossom in Paul’s mind.

He couldn’t tell what it was exactly that had triggered it. Hope, despair, new reflections; a mix of emotions that had boiled in him and led him to believe that maybe… they were wrong. Maybe Ringo’s theory that they would go back when things got better with the band was wrong. After all, they had no proof of that, did they? They still needed to find most of Briony’s short story – and the most important parts at that. All he knew was that going back to 2019 was more than probable. Beyond that, nothing was sure. So, it was not surprising that hope was tugging at every seam of his heart.

Days had continued to trickle out, Brian was fine, they had gone back to the studio, and Paul was still there. He had read Briony’s texts over and over, had kept visiting old shops and libraries in the hopes to find new issues of the magazine, but kept coming up empty. The thing was, if they were to go back the moment the band got better, maybe it would take years. Decades. Maybe Paul would leave this timeline only when the band would break-up this time around; in 10, 20, 30 years! He knew he was being too optimistic (probably naïve too, since there was no way George would not want to go solo at one point or another before then) but all in all, it was not less a possibility than him going back randomly the next day was. And since he was not working when this realization came upon him, he thus decided to go to Ringo’s house to discuss it with him directly. It was the day before the start of the shooting, and he didn’t want to start it while gnawing at his own brain. He sort of hoped Ringo would help kill the hope in its bud before it had any chance to ruin his mind further. Seeing Ringo was always good for the mind regardless of context anyway.

“Huh.”

Paul looked at Ringo sitting across from him. The other man had both arms on the table, hands joined around his cup of tea, and his gaze lost in the void. Paul waited patiently another couple of minutes, and when he realized nothing more was coming he pushed on:

“Okay. What else?”

Ringo’s gaze snapped up to him and he visibly shook his head.

“Well. It… It kind of make sense.”

Paul leant back in his plastic chair, and put his sunglasses back down on his nose when a sliver of sun hit his eye.

“I know,” He told his friend. “Right? This means we could have years left to salvage eve—”

“I think I’m gonna quit the band,” Ringo cut him off.

The breath got knocked out of him and Paul froze, gaping a bit. He was not sure he had heard right until he noticed Ringo was avoiding his eyes.

“Are you serious?”

Ringo sighed, his hands fidgeting until they just pushed the cup away.

“It’s just… I've been thinking about this for a while and... I don’t want to relive everything,” He started. “I know it’s not the same for you, but I’m just not interested.”

Paul’s ears were ringing and he couldn’t help the deep feeling of shame showering over him. He felt stupid, small and useless, and the anger of frustration was fighting with the sadness of betrayal. None of them won, leaving him cold, with trembling hands.

“But—but you said you were okay to do it. You said we could be a new version of the Beatles… You—I thought…”

“I know, I know,” Ringo said, and he looked embarrassed – pained, even. “And I meant it, but… I thought it was going to be temporary. I thought we would find a way to go back sooner than later, I… I never really believed we would stay here _for real_.”

Paul stared at him, torn between grabbing Ringo’s hands to shake him into letting this ludicrous idea go and crying his frustration out. But Ringo looked so sad, so upset, that he couldn’t have done anything other than stare at him anyway.

“You need to understand…” Ringo piped up again. “We’re not in the same situation. You’ve built yourself a new life here. You have John, you have… your passion—”

“But music is your passion too!”

“Of course! But… it’s not my whole life.”

He stopped, breathed deeply. He looked away for a moment, as if he was trying to find the strength to explain what was weighing on his heart. All things considered, he probably was. Paul waited, knowing there was no point in rushing him. This was very serious, and if there was one thing he had learned in his old age, it was that caring for people started with listening to what they were saying.

“Look…” Ringo said. “I miss my wife. I’m not saying you don’t miss Nancy, I know you do, but. But I want my old life back. I don’t want to settle back into this life and pick things where they were left. I understand if you want to do that – God, you have really good reasons to, now – but I… I don’t want it. I can’t stay with Maureen because I’m not in love with her, I haven’t been in decades. I love her, some part of me always will, but it’s not the same. Just like you, you told me you split up with Jane when you arrived, yeah? Well it’s the same. I can keep playing pretend. Of course I’m really happy to, to have George back, and John, and Brian, but… Even Zak. This baby boy, here, he’s not _my_ Zak. He’s not the son I raised and watched grow, make mistakes… fall in love, even have a kid! He’s a baby, and he is my son, I feel it, but it’s not the same. And if… if we are to stay here for long, I mean for more than a few months more, I… I can’t keep doing it. I’ll still care for my son, of course, but I won’t keep living the life I have lived before. I want to try other things. Do what I couldn’t, or just, you know, just didn’t do the first time around. I want to take my own life back. Do you understand what I mean?”

Paul remained silent for a moment, finding it hard to swallow. He felt stupid for not having seen it coming, but at the same time he was so stunned that he just knew he wouldn’t have accepted to see it even if it had been right there in front of him. He looked around too, at Ringo’s quiet garden, but all the colours seemed blurry, shaking. The rug had been pulled out beneath his feet and he didn’t know what to do or say to make it right.

“I just… I thought you liked it,” He said in a quiet voice, afraid it would break if he pushed it too much and still looking anywhere but at Ringo. “I thought you liked being a Beatle, being with us.”

“But I did!” Ringo rushed to answer, taking Paul’s hands in his. “Of course I did, Paul, I loved every single moment with you lads! I still do. I mean, perhaps not towards the ending, but, you know. You are like my brothers, I love all of you. But I don’t want to do it all again. Not the way it had happened, I don’t want to re-do it. I can’t really explain it, I just. Don’t want to.”

Paul nodded, trying to take the gigantic words in. It felt a little like his world was crumbling down around him, except that his head remained clear because it was _logical_. Ringo’s reasons were good, and sensible, and what could Paul say? Who was he to force him to stay? He was right. Paul had John, had hopes for their future together, for their conjoined career. His was not married, his children were not born yet, he breathed music—this life didn’t feel like such a reiteration. It was, on many levels, but if he were to choose between doing this and doing anything else, he would still choose this. If he were to choose between staying and leave back to 2019, it was hard to accept, but… he might still choose to stay. Because he wanted it. He could not possibly ask Ringo to choose a life he didn’t want.

Clearing his throat, he brought his gaze back to the table, scratched his face. Ringo had retreated his arms back to himself, looking a little unsure. Paul looked up.

“Just… can you give us some time?” He asked, his voice coming out stronger than he had expected. “I mean, if we don’t leave in the upcoming weeks, can you… or do you want to quit right now? You know, we’ve just started the album, I don’t—”

But Ringo jumped once again to reassure him.

“No, Paul, no, of course not, I’m not going to just dump you! I don’t want to just abandon everything, not at all. Come on, I’m not like that. I never intended to ghost on you.”

“Ghost you,” Paul corrected thoughtlessly.

Ringo frowned.

“No, ghost on you. Like, just disappear.”

Paul frowned too.

“Yes, I got it. And it’s ‘ghost someone’.”

“No, no, it’s Sonny who told me.”

Paul breathed deeply, trying to focus.

“Okay, whatever. So… when?”

Ringo sighed, shaking his head as if lost in his thoughts. His cold tea was long forgotten in his cup, and so was Paul’s.

“Maybe after the next album? Or I don’t know, maybe the next one? I mean, if we don’t leave before of course. I’m not sure when exactly, I just know… I don’t know. I guess if we keep recording but with albums more spaced one with the other it’s fine by me. You know what I mean? I just want it to be calm, most of all. To have time to do other things. Sorry if I’m not clear, it’s not very clear in my mind yet.”

Paul nodded again. It was not as bad as he had first feared. Ringo looked worried, and a bit guilty still. The sun was still blazing in the sky and bathing them in bright hot light. Every noise and sensation were suddenly screaming their existence at Paul, coming all at once to shatter the fragile peace of mind he was nurturing. There also was no wind, he noticed, and he felt a bit stifled, suffocated even. _It’s not the end of the world_, he tried to convince himself. Then why did it feel like it was, in a way? The end of the world as he had always envisioned it ever since he was 16 years old. And yet, somewhere in him, he knew Ringo’s solution was for the best. Living exclusively as a Beatle was what had made his depression so brutal when the band had broken up the first time. Slowing things down was perhaps not such a bad idea. It took him a while to even realize that Ringo was still talking to him.

“Sorry, what?” He asked, widening his eyes to help himself focus.

“Do you think it’s too early still?” Ringo reiterated with frowning eyes.

“No, no,” Paul rushed to shake his head. “It’s your choice. And taking more time in-between albums sounds fair. It’s like we said before. New us, new Beatles.”

Ringo nodded too and in his stilted exhale, Paul understood that he was slightly relieved. It was important to him, Paul realized. It was not something he was taking lightly and there was a good reason for it: the Beatles had been their life for most of their lives, even long after their dismantlement. Parting from it in the peak of their glory was a big gesture, the final decision to leave the past in the past (literally) and to start fresh. Paul understood, he thought, that need to get a clean slate. To let memories belong with memories and to open new, unknown paths. But it didn’t mean he was not upset by it still. A corner of his mind also held on the selfish fear that he might somehow lose his friend, too.

“We’ll just have to pray we won’t forget all our songs by then,” He told Ringo with a light chuckle.

Ringo smiled but his frown was still in place.

“What do you mean? I know I’m old but I’m not senile yet. Hopefully.”

“Yeah but you know, with our old memories getting blurrier by the day.”

The frown on Ringo’s forehead deepened again.

“Mine are fine. On the contrary, being young again in my youth body make them clearer, I believe.”

Paul was taken aback for a second. He had never had memory problems, far from it, and being faced to the fact that one of his prides might not be totally accurate was a bit of a blow to his ego.

“Oh,” He settled on answering. “Well, yeah—I guess. Maybe it’s because you’ve been here for less long.”

“Probably.” Ringo amiably agrees. After a minute of silence, he picked up again: “I’ve been having weird dreams, though. The other day I dreamt I was fighting with Maureen in an airport. It felt so real.”

Paul, who was looking at the sun piecing through the leaves of the nearest tree, did a double-take.

“Wasn’t that the fight in Spain?”

The confusion on Ringo’s face was almost palpable.

“…What?”

“When we arrived in Spain last year,” Paul specified.

“You mean before _I bloody time-travelled_?” Ringo wondered, scratching his chin with a pointed raised eyebrow. “I mean, I know I just said I have a good memory but it’s not _that_ good. And no, this was just a dream. You know, dream-like. Weird. Oh, by the way, I have been in touch with a man who has another copy of the magazine. One we haven’t read. He said he would send it to me. It should be a matter of days, now.”

Paul made a face. He didn’t like to think about Briony’s short story – not when it reminded him his days in this timeline were numbered. He angled his legs more towards the garden, crossing them, and took a sip of his frozen tea (hiding a grimace). When he put his cup back down, he heard a light ‘crunch’ under his foot; he looked down and found a leaf broken into by his foot. He picked it up and started to delicately crumble it.

“John thinks I fell in love with him when we were younger,” He blurted out in the sole purpose of changing the subject – literally the first idea that had floated in his mind.

Ringo made a not-so-surprised face. He was even _pouting_.

“Mmh,” He simply let out after a few seconds.

Paul scoffed a little, unable to stop himself. The crumbled leaf still between his hands.

“What, ‘_mmh’_?” He repeated.

“Well… I don’t know. He might have a point. You’ve always loved him.”

Paul frowned, not understanding where he was getting at.

“You’ve always loved him too! There’s a difference with being in love. I haven’t secretly wanted to get into his pants all these years.”

Ringo chuckled and looked away, vaguely gesturing at the garden.

“But you still loved him differently, didn’t you? You know, you two don’t look _that_ different today from what you used to look like. A bit, of course, but. I mean, if you had to describe what he has always made you feel—or like, when you think about him, what’s the one thing that comes back?”

Paul looked down to the fractured leaf in his hands, frowning. He didn’t like the direction of this conversation either, but he was willing to at least humour his friend. It was a complicated question, but after a moment of reflection, he realized the answer was surprisingly easy.

“I want to make him smile,” He answered.

When he looked back at his friend, he found the other man smiling.

“That’s very sweet,” Ringo said.

“Sod off,” Paul laughed, throwing the bits of leaf at him.

Ringo laughed too, ducking to avoid them. Some bits fell into his cold tea.

“Ok, but— my point is, isn’t that something you felt before already? Haven’t you always felt that way?”

Paul frowned again.

“I mean. Yeah. But. You know, that doesn’t mean anything. I like to make my friends smile too. I like to make my brother smile. You know, that’s not exclusive. It doesn’t mean I’m in love with everyone.”

Ringo vehemently shook his head and suddenly got up, heading towards his house.

“Where are you—?!” Paul started, standing straight in his chair.

“Wait here, just a sec,” Ringo said before entering the house.

Paul watched him leave, feeling a little dumb, alone with the last bits of leaf in his hands. He squirmed on his seat, not knowing what to expect, and a couple of minutes later Ringo arrived with large photographs in his hands. He pulled his chair next to Paul, pushed the cups of tea on the side and laid the photographs down in front on Paul. Paul put his hand on it without thinking, his frowning eyes still on Ringo.

“What is…?” He started.

“Just look!”

Paul obeyed and looked at the picture. It was one from the Beatles photoshoot they had done several months earlier for the Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band album. The four of them were lined up against the wall in colourful outfits, with John and Paul in the middle. The photo looked pretty much exactly the way he remembered it from his first time around. Feeling a little confused, he looked up to Ringo again.

"What am I looking at exactly?”

Ringo frowned, as if it was obvious.

“Don’t you recognize it?” He asked Paul, who merely frowned again, too.

“Hum, yes, _I was there_, but—”

“It’s the same bloody picture!” Ringo cut him off, his voice getting louder for a reason that was still escaping Paul. “I noticed it the other day, when I received them. If you compare this one to the one we took in 1967—I mean, like, the first, you know – well, it’s the same!”

Paul stared at him for a few seconds, trying very hard to understand where he was getting at – and failing miserably. Ringo poked the picture with an angry finger again, tapping right at Paul and John’s faces. They were looking at each other in it.

“Do you see it, the love? We can literally feel it here.”

“Okay, you may have listened to Elton a little bit too—”

“Paul, I’m serious. The way you look at each other in this? I can’t say what it is exactly, but it looks deeper than friendship. I mean, yeah maybe I’m saying this now because of, you know, context. Or whatever. But you already looked at each other like that the first time around. This picture looks exactly like the previous one. I’m almost sure. So yes, I think John is right. I believe you already loved him before, even if maybe you didn’t know it.”

Paul froze, staring at the picture. Now that he was seeing what Ringo meant, he couldn’t detach his eyes from it. John’s gaze drilling into his was no surprise. But… he was staring back, just as steadily. And the picture did look perfectly similar to the first one they had taken. He had seen it an incalculable amount of times – he would know. He remembered that day the first time around, how close he had felt to John. How comfortable and reassuring their relationship had been. Back then, he had felt like the king of the world, like nothing could touch him and like if even if anything did touch him, John would be there for him anyway. It had been trust, and friendship, admiration, but also…

More? Had it been more?

The idea that he had been in love with John for longer than he thought had already crossed his mind before. John’s confessions back in November had naturally led him to wonder about his own feelings, but he had brushed the idea away as fast as it had come. It had felt impossible, ludicrous, even. Just because he couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment his feelings had changed didn’t mean they hadn’t, he had concluded. He thought he had just overlooked it. But what if Ringo was right? What if that indescribable sentiment and connection he had always felt towards John had been more than friendship the whole time? The thought was dizzying and by reflex he pulled back and pushed the photograph away with a small grunt.

“Maybe,” He said, surprised to sound that normal. “I don’t know. Doesn’t change much anyway.”

Ringo pulled back a little too, still seating next to him, and nodded.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Paul didn’t answer. Guessed he was right.

He didn’t know what it would mean if he wasn’t.

Paul had replied ‘in bed’.

Ever since that last conversation with Ringo, he had not been able to get the words of his friend out of his mind. He had come home, called his dad, fed his pets, tended to his flat, played some music. And still the idea turned on a loop in his brain: when had he fallen in love? Had there been signs before? Mere weeks ago he would have strongly denied it, but now… now he was not so sure. Another memory of a conversation with Ringo from a few months prior had made a comeback too. Paul had come out and Ringo _had not been surprised_. Paul had interpreted it as something that was telling about John at the time, but he had got it all wrong; it was telling about _himself_, more than anything. He had loved John ever since he had met him, there had never been any doubt about it. They had been thick as thieves right from the get go, always hanging out together, writing, laughing, doing shenanigans. They had gone to Paris together, for Christ’s sake. Right from the start they had pictured their careers as a unified one – their _whole lives_ as one path they could travel together. Ever since John’s death, there had not been one day Paul had not thought about him, and as hard as it was to admit, it was not the case for his parents, nor even for Linda. He had always attributed it to their mutual, burning passion. Music. But could music really explain everything away? The longing, the inexplicable connection, the attraction he had tried to bury deep inside of him for so long that he had nearly managed to completely forget about it. He had even said it himself, to lots of people – including reporters: John was his soulmate.

Now, looking back… it made sense. It really did.

Most of all, Paul felt stupid. How could he have not _seen_ it, during all these years, decades even?! He had spent so much time with John, had talked with him and about him for hours on end. He had dreamt about him, regularly. And yet, not once had he questioned his own feelings, or asked himself if his adoration could be actual infatuation.

Although… Well.

There had been that one interview. In the late 90s, if his memory was right. It had been a very relaxed one, with various questions from fan themselves. One of them had asked what he would do if John was back for one day; how he would choose to spend it.

And Paul had replied ‘in bed’.

He had not even taken time to think about it. It had just come out, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and since he had been too embarrassed afterwards to take it back, he had chosen to bluff it out and act as if it was totally normal to want to spend the day _in bed_ with your male best friend for whom you were only supposed to have friendly feelings. The interviewer had chuckled, probably figuring it was a joke; and it was easier to pretend it was, right? But Paul was not so sure about it, and he had spent that night repeating the words over in his head and wondering why the hell he had said that. Why he had thought that. Because he had, thought it. He had clearly pictured himself in bed with John, and he could not even reassure himself by saying it was in an innocent, platonic way either. He was no prude: for him, spending the day in bed did not imply conversations about the weather, twiddling thumbs or… clothes.

He had eventually repressed that memory too, deeming it to be confused melancholy. And he was so good at repressing memories that it had worked, and he had stopped worrying about it quite quickly. But. But now that he was looking back on his life and saw how things had turned out with John, he was forced to admit that all the ‘incidents’, the ‘coincidences’ and the ambiguity he still had trouble regarding as such between them could simply _not_ be innocent. He was in bed, supposedly ready to fall asleep when it hit him right in the face.

The ‘no homo’ policy his oldest grandson had told him about could only work for so long. John was right: it had never really been ‘no homo’ between them. Up until now, he thought falling in love with John had been thrown upon him out of nowhere, something that had revealed a part of himself he didn’t know, but he was wrong. It had always been a part of him. He had chosen to love John from the moment he had seen him and decided they would be friends – the rest was just growth. So if Paul could not pinpoint the moment he had fallen in love with him, it was simply because it had happened as easily as breathing. Perhaps it had been from the first look – or perhaps before they were even born at all.

In the end, it was not surprising to see life had found a way to bring him back to John.

Paul woke up feeling extremely strange. There was a tingling feeling in his limbs, and his head felt heavier than usual, which was especially remarkable now that his headaches were getting rarer and rarer. His dream came back to him – once again that odd one with John looking sad and the tape of all over his guitar. Except this time it had felt much more real, as if he had literally been with John a few minutes before.

Paul was alone in a backstage room after yet another show. The others were already gone to get their stuff to the car leading them to the airport but Paul had lost time talking with the crew and was now the last one to pack his things. They had time before they needed to leave, but he still didn’t like being the black sheep of the group. So he was rushing to take off his boots, which were too new still and made his feet chafe after a while. His ears were still humming from the noise of the concert, and being alone in the quiet was appeasing; his heartbeat even seemed too fast, his breathing too loud in the empty room. A knock at the door made him look up: John was at the door, smiling at him. ‘Are you ready,’ he asked. Paul wasn’t, but he just needed to grab his bass. He liked to carry it around himself, even if Mal and Neil were specifically hired to do it for him. He went to the guitar case and opened it just to check if the bass was indeed inside, and paused when he saw the inside of it. He slowly took the bass out of the case, his eyes bulging out of his head. There was sticking tape all over it, under the strings and inside of it too. Paul heard John giggle and his head snapped at him. ‘Is this you,’ he accused him, not an ounce of humour in his voice. John’s smile faltered. ‘It’s just a joke,’ he defended, a bit unsure of himself. But Paul didn’t find it funny in the slightest. This was his instrument, his work tool. They had a plane to catch, professional concerts to play at; they did not have time nor the luxury to fool around with their stuff like 16-year-olds anymore. He yelled at him, called him an immature idiot, a fool who did not take their careers seriously and the sad surprise on John’s face only spurred him on. He remembered feeling angry, and having only the vague thought that his anger was a tad misplaced. The sensations of the concert of that very night were floating back to him, and they left him feeling strange. It had been a good one, a blindingly good one. Singing into the same mic as John, seeing the sweat drip on his face and off of the strands of his hair. His smile, so large, so genuine, and his shining eyes that always dared Paul to do _more_. The heat of his presence, unbearable and yet. Yet... They were close, with John. Too close, maybe. Closer than they should be.

It was a very weird dream, and he couldn’t shake off how real it felt. He sat up in his bed, and Martha jumped on him the second she saw he was awake, licking his hands and happily barking at him. The dream soon flew away from Paul’s conscious mind, leaving to hide into a little, new memory box.

With the start of the shooting, the day ended up being as busy as expected. In the new script, the Beatles were nobodies, mere strangers living their lives separately until one fan, the only one who remembered the Beatles, came along to refresh their memories and show them their potential thanks to her ‘magical bus’, capable to travel through time and space. Ringo played himself as a professional bicycle rider, George as a young accountant overwhelmed by his controlling parents, John as a florist exceptionally unlucky and Paul as a mason with so many kids that a new one keeps popping up along the movie. The fan came with her bus, convinced them to follow her on her bus and all together, through many shenanigans and absurd situations, they re-created the Beatles. The four of them were excited about it, and the giant wink to Paul and Ringo’s actual situation only added to the fun. They were less bored (and definitely less stoned) than they had been the first time around and Paul was confident that their motivation would shine through the screen this time.

After a few days of shooting, Brian, faithful to his word, came to visit them on set. He looked alright, a bit less tired than during the summer, and if Paul and Ringo (and John now, too) were still scared for him, they had to admit that the situation looked significantly less worrying this time around. Maybe they were being all wrong, simply blinded by their hope, but if Brian were to die soon, Paul doubted it would be from overdosing on anything. Perhaps… perhaps this time it would go well. After five days of filming, they took a break to go to the studio and record ‘Your Mother Should Know’ (Paul was glad this one had made the cut). The change of atmosphere was nice, but Paul felt that Ringo was a bit unsure, cautious even. When Paul asked him if everything was alright, he would say yes with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. It was not surprising per say, but Paul still wondered how long it would take before the others noticed something was wrong. Turned out he didn’t have to wonder for long.

Paul was in the small courtyard of the studios with John and George, taking a small break in-between bouts of mixing and throwing George’s cigarettes away every time he dared to pull out a new one. As the master of annoyance he was, John happily went along and poor George was getting seriously frustrated – although his admonitions were severely undermined by his own laughter sticking out. When Ringo joined them, it took them a few seconds to notice his quiet presence.

“Hey Ring,” John said first. “Help us find Geo’s fags to cut them all up.”

“For fuck's sake John,” George protested. “You smoke too!”

John shrugged while next to him, Paul grinned with a raised eyebrow. He couldn’t deny George’s logic.

“’S fun though,” John said as a defence.

Ringo gave him a small smile, and Paul noticed George’s expression faltering.

“You okay, Richie?” He asked, serious.

Ringo’s head snapped up again, and he visibly shook himself into properly being with them.

“Yeah, yeah… just…”

He trailed off and sent a questioning look to Paul. Paul understood what it was about straight away; he would be lying if he said he hadn’t been thinking about it every day since their last conversation. Knowing the time had come, no matter how painful it was, he nodded and leant a bit further against the wall, plopping himself right against John (who took his hand as if by instinct and glanced at him with worried eyes).

Ringo breathed deeply, bracing himself.

“I think I won’t stay in the band forever,” He declared. “Not if we don’t take much more time to make albums. To have space to do something else on the side. That is, if Paul and I stay here for an extended period of time. I mean, a longer one than how long we have stayed already.”

His words were followed by silence for a moment. Paul studied John’s face, who was gaping the littlest bit. He looked surprised, but not as upset as he would have expected. Perhaps he too had processed this possibility in his mind. George, who was staring steadily at Ringo with an unreadable face apart from the small wrinkle between his eyes, finally spoke up as calmly as usual:

“What are you planning to do?”

Paul smiled to himself – you could always count on George to go straight to the point.

“I don’t know,” Ringo smiled helplessly. “I haven’t decided yet. I just don’t want my whole life to revolve around the Beatles, not again. But you’ll always be my brothers, the three of you, and I fully intent to keep you in my life as long as I’m here. I just… I don’t want to live it all again exactly the same.”

“Don’t tell me we’ll have to hire Jimmy again,” John joked.

“Sod off,” George responded instantly, throwing a serious glance at John. “Without Ringo, no more Beatles. Is that clear?”

Paul nodded, and it dawned on him that even though he hadn’t formulated clearly in his mind yet, he totally agreed. It had not even crossed his mind to continue the band with their friend._ Guess that’s what they call growth_, he fleetly thought. John let go of Paul’s hand and shot his arms up in the air.

“Alright alright, don’t shoot me. I was just kidding.”

He let his arms fall, and Paul felt him slide even closer to him, their arms and hips flushed together now.

“It’s just… we’re doing good, lately,” He added, quieter. “It’d stupid to change everything now. You know, not stupid, but it’s a shame. Plus I don’t think Brian and the rest will be thrilled. Aren’t we contracted to do more albums anyway?”

Paul shook his head and saw Ringo mirror him, just in front of him.

“No, not with the changes we did last year, remember?” He answered. “The contract only forces us to finish the movie, for now. After that we’re pretty free, for now. I… before Ringo arrived too, that’s why I made sure we weren’t under too many obligations. I didn’t want the band to go bad again. I thought that was the point of my being here, you know.”

John nudged him, probably feeling the twinge of sadness in his voice, but standing in front of John, George merely frowned.

“The point of you being here is to change our contracts?” He asked, crossing his arms with a confused face.

For a second, Paul panicked he might have said too much, but then he glanced at Ringo and saw his friend shrug with an empathetic expression.

"Might as well come clean, don’t you think?” He told Paul.

“What’s going on?” John intervened, pushing himself off of the wall with his eyes ping-ponging between Paul and Ringo. “What is there to come clean about?!”

“Nothing _you_ don’t know,” Paul reassured him.

George frowned harder.

“Okay what are you hiding from me this time? Are you secret agents too, now?”

Ringo chuckled and Paul braced himself for the dreaded conversation. It was a period he never liked to talk about, and yet, it felt like the world kept throwing it back at his face. But Ringo was right. It was a weirdly solemn moment, important in a way he couldn’t quite describe. If they wanted to make it right this time, there was no other solution. He felt it deep in his bones that this was it. No more excuses, no more fears, no more secrets. Time to tell the whole truth. To all of them.

“We think we’re here because the band exploded the first time around,” Paul calmly.

“What do you mean, ‘exploded’?” George slowly repeated with a grimace.

He turned to John, who merely imitated a bomb exploding with his hands. Paul saw George frowning and gestured to get his attention back.

“It went bad,” He expanded. “We all got mad at each other, and lawyers got in the middle, and… other people… and I—we, you know…”

“He sued all of us,” Ringo added, pointing a thumb at Paul.

“Ha!” John let out, turning to Paul with crossed arms and raised eyebrows. “You didn’t specify _that_ part, did you?”

Paul remained gaping at him for a few seconds, his heartbeat raising again. He was feeling like he was caught red-handed, even though—

“I didn’t lie to you, I told you we had all got caught up with lawsuits and—”

“I know I know love, calm down, I’m just kidding,” John said, extending a calming hand on Paul’s arm.

“Sorry Paul, I know it’s a delicate top—” Ringo started.

“Wait!” George intervened, raising his arms in the air too. “All of you, just—shut up.”

They obeyed (even John), and when they all were looking at him, George started speaking again, staring straight at Paul:

“Why the hell did you sue us?!”

“Because you had trusted the wrong person, who was going to bleed all of us from our rights,” Paul retorted, still a bit sensitive on this point, even after all these years. “Our money. We had already lost part of our shares on Northern Songs—”

“You still had your share though, you and John,” Ringo countered with a frown.

“Yeah but I mean when we lost the bid for the rest,” Paul told him. “I had to sue the company to make sure he didn’t get a hold of it. You know, Klein, the wrong person. I never meant to sue all of you personally.”

“I don’t get it, what company…?! NEMS?” George replied, looking very much confused.

Paul got up, all the nerves in his body keeping him restless.

“No, ours. Apple.”

“I thought you had left the band?” John cued in with a frown. “Because you were fighting about your solo album or something?”

“He did,” Ringo amended, hands rubbing his temples from his stool. “Just before the lawsuit. Even though I _nicely_ asked him not to release it—”

Paul turned around, offended.

“Of sod off, you know I didn’t give a shit about my release date!” He turned to John and pointed a finger at him: “And you left first, for the record.”

John widened his eyes at him and raised his hands in defence.

“But we didn’t create a company this time,” George said, very slowly – as if he was trying to (ineffectively) calm them down. “It’s even you, Paul, who refused to talk about it the other day.”

“The other day?” John snorted with a grin. “As in, nine months ago?”

“The company was just collateral damage, to be honest,” Ringo said, looking straight at Paul who was standing in front of him.

Paul maintained his gaze but finally let out a sigh. He was right – of course he was. He glanced at George, who still looked completely out of his depth. It had never been about the company or about solo albums, had it? The Beatles had started to get fragile way before that. What had killed them was simple: communication. Or rather, a devastating lack of it. He looked up to his bandmates, knowing what was inevitable.

“We split up the first time because we were idiots,” He declared. “Especially me. I didn’t listen to you, either of you, I… I was convinced I was always right, and I guess sometimes I wasn’t.”

John snorted and Paul couldn’t help but to poke him in the ribs for that. Ringo enjoyed the occasion to speak too.

“That’s what I mean, about the band. I would like us to do exactly what we want, all of us. I don’t want to go through disputes and money battles and all that nonsense. I don’t want to stay a Beatle if the Beatles are just an empty shell of what we used to be.”

John whistled with raised eyebrows.

“Wow. So poetic.”

George laughed and Ringo made a dramatically offended face at him. When the evening breeze suddenly brushed his arm and made him shiver, Paul checked his watch. Their ‘pause’ was starting to get outrageous. He pushed himself off of the wall too and aimed for the door.

“We should get back in. Take all of that inside. Seems like we have to lot to discuss then, don’t we?”

When John and Paul came back together to Paul’s flat that evening, they were exhausted. Not only had they worked all day on the songs (starting surprisingly early seeing as they were more used to record late into the night) but they had also talked about the future of the band at length. It was reassuring for Paul to see that despite Ringo’s earlier statements, he was still deeply attached to the band, and did not intend to just cut off all links to it at the first occasion. In the end, taking things more slowly with the band was profitable to all of them: Ringo could test out a new life he had never been able to live before, George could have time to raise his little Grace, and Paul and John could lose a bit of the spotlight that made their relationship so delicate to maintain. They had also evoked the possibility of course to still work together, not necessarily all four of them, in-between albums. Paul liked the idea to work on several fronts at the same time; knowing his workaholism, it was almost vital to him.

When they got home with takeaway bags in hands, the pets welcomed them warmly (probably spurred on by the smell of the bags). Paul, feeling gross and sticky, went straight for the shower while John prepared their food in order to take it to the living-room. It was already more than 9pm, and Paul showered quickly because he felt that he would not last very long – he wanted to enjoy John a little before sleeping like a log. They had not spent a quiet evening together in a few days, blocked by the shooting, and Paul had missed him a little, no matter how corny that made him. He came out of the shower in pyjamas, drying his hair with a towel, and he was in the corridor when the phone rang.

“The phone’s ringing!” John shouted, making Paul wince.

“I know, jeez, I’m right here,” Paul retorted as he entered the living-room, a finger in his ear.

John, sprawled out on the couch with Thisbe on his belly, lazily grinned at him.

“Sorry love,” He said, not looking sorry at all.

“You’re lucky you’re hot,” Paul answered with a chuckle.

John stretched his arms and legs to show off his body in a ridiculous imitation of models. Paul chuckled again and finally picked up the still ringing phone, his other hand still drying his hair with the towel.

“Hello,” He said joyously in the phone.

“Paul,” Was the simple answer.

Paul froze at the shortness and the pressing gravity of the tone. A horrible feeling came to him and he shivered without reason.

“Ringo? Are you okay?” He answered with a frown.

From the corner of his eye, he saw John sit up in the couch, pushing Thisbe away.

“I…” Ringo started, and he sounded like the hand holding his phone was frantically moving. “I received the magazine.”

Barely bridled fear invaded Paul at once and he went into the corridor, as far as the chord of the phone allowed him to, not to have John’s eyes drill into him.

“Okay,” He said in a carefully neutral voice.

But when only silence and a laboured breathing answered him, he lost a bit of his calm.

“Ringo, you’re scaring me.”

“I don’t know how to say it,” Ringo finally rushed. “So I’m going to read it to you, okay?”

Paul nodded into the phone, but visibly Ringo didn’t need to hear his approval to feel it and he went on, the rustling sound of a paper following his trembling words.

“_Had I known that night was to be my last one, perhaps I would not have said anything,” _He started reading_. “Perhaps I would have taken my mother to the beach, watched the sunset with her, talked about hope, about the future, provoked her laughter. I would not have uncovered all those hurtful truths, I would not have been the trigger of my mother’s tears and heartfelt apologies. I would not have put her through the ordeal of discovering her daughter had been so damaged by her death that Destiny had deemed it fit to send her back in time to prevent it._

_That’s the first thing I thought, the morning I woke up in my bed with my husband, on November 14th, 1893. Still burdened with the weight of that meaningful conversation, I cursed the world to take me away from my mother right at the moment we had become a family again. I remembered everything that had happened clear as day, and wondered if my mother was the same, back in 1860. Somewhere in my heart, I knew she was. After this whole life spent lying to her, believing her to be the cause of all my problems, I had finally learned to trust her, and sought to understand the specificities of her complex character. I had found my mother back, in my heart and in my head, and my journey had come to an end._

_But most of all, I had finally understood something about myself that I had never dared to imagine. I was stronger than I thought—more resilient than my rage outbursts led to believe. I was a loved person—had always been. If I had gone back to an early period, I believe my mother would not have been able to hear my excuses, to listen to my point of view. Furthermore, back before that first night my brother had fallen sick, I would have never even allowed myself to picture my mother’s side of events either. And if it had been later, things would have been too far gone to salvage. My relationship with her had so defined my life that finally knowing what had gone wrong, knowing that my mother would have never given me to Sister Karen had she had the choice, made me feel free in a way the wisdom of accumulated years never had. _

_I couldn’t grieve over my mother because I couldn’t understand why I’d lost her, years before her accident. And now, with the knowledge that she had loved me all along painted on my heart, I could finally rest easy.”_

Ringo’s voice died down at the other end of the phone, and white noise took its place. It was as if Paul’s nerves had been neutralized, and the only sensation that reached his brain was the roughness of the phone against his ear and the loud beating of his heart.

“… Paul?”

Paul fought hard to make his voice leave his throat.

“What… how—what does it. You think…?” He struggled to formulate.

“I have been reading it over and over,” Ringo answered, and he still sounded so emotional that it was hard to hear. “Thinking about it from all perspectives, and… I… She left the morning after she openly talked to her mum. At the—when they cleared everything. She went back because there had been miscommunication between them and… That’s the only… she makes it pretty clear. It was when—”

“—it was time to tell the whole truth,” Paul completed blankly.

He thought he heard Ringo whisper a ‘yeah’, but nothing could enter his overwhelmed mind anymore, his hand slowly moving the phone away from his ear. The towel dropped to the ground, completely forgotten. His limbs as heavy as lead, Paul went back into the living-room and hung up the phone with absent movements. His mind was not in control of everything anymore.

“Paul…?” Came John’s voice, so quiet it made the lump in Paul’s throat grow three sizes.

With all the strength he had left, Paul turned to look at his love. John was sitting on the edge of the couch, just next to him, and his eyes were swarming with worry.

“I…” Paul tried.

He took Paul’s hand in his and squeezed hard. It anchored Paul enough to speak, his voice feeling foreign to his own ears.

“I’m leaving.”

John quizzically looked at him.

“I don’t—” He started.

“Ringo has found a new chapter,” Paul cut him off, his voice rising higher before it caught in his throat. “We’ve… she left when she told the whole truth. And earlier, we… we’ve…”

Paul started shaking and his legs gave out under him. John rushed to catch him but both were surprised by the sudden weight of his trembling body and John could merely accompany Paul’s fall to the ground.

“Hey hey, wait, maybe it’s not… maybe you won’t, it doesn’t mean—”

John’s voice sounded so scared, so close to the fear Paul had tried so hard to keep at bay that it immediately awakened his anger. He pushed himself off of John’s arms and scrambled to get up on trembling, weak legs.

“Yes it does!” He burst out. “It fucking does, it’s pretty fucking clear! We’ve told you and George everything about the band, so now everything will be alright from now on and—and I’m fucking leaving! Fuck!”

As Paul finally managed to stand up and walk nervously around the room, John fell silent, just watching him. Paul couldn’t look at him though—it was too hard. Everything was too fucking hard; he thought he would have time, he thought he would actually stay for a while and now… now… His whole world was crashing down around him, and he could do nothing about it. In a sudden urge, he ran in the archway to look at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was 9:48. His hands flew on his head, frantic, and he turned back around to face John, who had not moved from his crouching position in front of the couch.

“What are we gonna do?!” He asked, a bit aimlessly – at this point, words came out on their own volition. ““I can’t go now, there wasn’t enough time… I haven’t said goodbye! I need—what about Mal, or Brian?! Or George, there’s. There’s so much I haven’t told him yet, I can’t—what if he dies even earlier here?! Or my dad, I need to see him, I need more time… I need more time! What am I—I can’t go back. I can’t leave! What am I even gonna do when I’m back?!”

“You… you’ll be with your family again…” John faintly tried.

But Paul couldn’t accept it—couldn’t take anything in. Only his anger and terrified frustration survived, boiling at the surface and erasing every other feeling.

“I don’t care!” He countered brutally. “I don’t fucking care! I don’t want to—I don’t want to go back, this makes no—what am I supposed to-?! it makes no fucking sense, it’s just— I don’t want to leave!”

“Paul… Paul, please calm down—”

“Calm down?! What the—no I won’t fucking calm down, yidiot! I’m about to disappear! Do you even understand it? Do you—”

“SHUT UP!” John suddenly shouted.

Paul closed his mouth at once, rattled by the force of his boyfriend’s voice. He then looked at him, for real this time. White as a sheet, a hand mercilessly rubbing his forehead, John looked terrible. His eyes were suspiciously glistening, and when he calmed down enough to notice it, Paul saw that his whole body was trembling too. Feeling completely lost, Paul just stood there, waiting for him to speak.

“Do you know how hard it was for me at first to accept that the old Paul I knew was gone?” John suddenly said with a bitter voice, the change of subject taking Paul aback for a second. “I never told you, because I didn’t want to be unfair to you, but it took me quite some time to come to terms with it. I mean, I couldn’t help but feel like, you know, I had lost something. I had lost some part of you just because you could not possibly remember everything after so many years. And now… now you… now that version of you might be back again tomorrow, and he’ll remember the stupid fucking joke about the balaclava but he won’t remember I love him and that’s just—”

His voice cut off in his throat and Paul rushed to kneel in front of him, taking him into his arms.

“I’m sorry,” Paul exhaled, feeling like an utter asshole for momentarily forgetting this affected John too. “I’m so sorry…”

John was avoiding his eyes, shaking his head away.

“I don’t want you to leave either,” He brokenly whispered. “I can’t… I don’t know—I can’t live without you, I don’t know how to—”

Paul stomach turned again. His hands slid on John’s warm skin, his body hair, the sharp angles of his knees and jaw. He took his face in his hands, traced the crinkles by his eyes, the soft shape of his mouth, the beauty of his amber eyes. Come morning, Paul would not be able to touch him ever again, nor to see him, to talk to him. Come morning, Paul would be back in 2019, and John would be long dead. He hugged John as close as possible, feeling his shaky breathing against his own ribcage, John’s crazy heartbeat matching his. This was too soon. They didn’t have enough time. They would never have enough time. Nothing but John’s body made sense anymore, and the mere thought that in a few hours they would be separated made Paul want to throw up. He even had to rush to the bathroom, the urge becoming overwhelming with the scent of their take-away waiting for them on the coffee table. When he came back, his legs feeling too weak to carry his body, John had moved to sit back against the couch, his trembling hands covering his face. Paul looked at him for a moment, feeling so utterly lost that even walking to John felt like an ordeal. His limbs moving by themselves, he went to slide down next to his lover and took him in his arms again. John lifted one of his hands to grab Paul’s arm, squeezing it so hard it was painful, but Paul didn’t mind. He needed it. He needed to feel his presence, to feel him alive next to him. _For the last time_, Paul’s brain taunted him.

They stayed like that for a while, both taking in the enormity of the situation. It seemed impossible, and yet clearly Paul felt it. He knew it was his last night, down to his skin, his blood. And he was scared shitless.

It was only when Martha came to poke his legs and whine at him that he realized what time it was. He looked at his watch: it was already 10:26 and he hadn’t fed his pets yet. Oh my—what was young Paul going to think when he would wake up in a flat he didn’t know with a dog and a new cat he’d never seen before?! There was so much young Paul had missed. And God, his relationship with John… not only was it going to be awful for John, but it was going to be so confusing for all the people who knew about them too. Maybe young Paul would assume he had amnesia—probably, even. It seemed like the most logical conclusion. As he left John momentarily (and with a heavy heart) to feed his pets, Paul thought about his father. Thank God he had never told him about John. That made one less delicate conversation for young Paul to face, less heartache all around. His father… he would never see him again. Nor George, nor Brian, nor Mal. Nor Maureen and Cynthia… His heart and chest were hurting so much it was a miracle he could still breathe.

He couldn’t leave like that, like a shadow in the night. He needed to say goodbye. As he came back to the living-room, he picked up the phone and snuggled back into John’s arms, still on the floor. John was so stunned, so upset, that he barely reacted and just looked at the phone with blank confusion on his face.

“I have to…” Paul explained, very quietly. “I need to call my dad. Just, his voice…”

John stared at him, and softly nodded, his arms hugging Paul even tighter. He put his chin on Paul’s shoulder while Paul was composing the number with shaking fingers. The phone rang for a while, resonating violently in the quiet of their embrace. Finally, his dad answered.

“Yes?”

“Dad, hi!” Paul started, getting already choked up.

“How are you, son? It’s not like you to phone me this late.”

“Yes, I’m sorry I know, it’s just… I was thinking about you and just. I wanted to know how you were doing.”

“Oh,” His father chuckled lightly. “Well, I’m all good. Don’t worry about me. But you, how are you? Mike told me you had started a new film.”

Paul smiled to himself, finding it hard to speak. He still did though; talked to his father for a while, just listened to him ramble on about his new fence and about a restaurant he had discovered with Angela. Paul didn’t say much, but he didn’t need to. Just hearing his father’s voice was already good. It wasn’t enough—it never would, but it appeased his heart the tiniest bit to have had this slight warning before his departure. Leaving without being able to say goodbye at all would have been the hardest blow of them all.

When he hung up, after nearly an hour, John was still cuddling him in silence. They had both stopped shaking, but a dreadful quiet had fallen upon them. It was as if death was waiting for them at the corner of the room—and in a strange, symbolic way, that was exactly the case. Paul wanted to say goodbye to George, the only other person apart from John and Ringo who knew _who_ he really was, but there was no way he could summon enough strength to make another call. The solution to write him a letter then suggested by John seemed to be the best alternative. Paul went to find some lyrics sheet and a pen lying around. It took him an awful long time to find the words – what could he even say?! – but he did, and after an hour or so, he folded the paper in three and gave the letter to John, trusting him to give it to George when he would fall asleep. Which Paul was set on postponing as much as he humanly could.

“I won’t go to sleep,” Paul said in a low tone, making John turn incredibly sad eyes to him. “We can save some time, a day. Maybe two if I drink enough coffee.”

“Paul—” John said, his voice barely a broken whisper.

“I’m not leaving tonight John,” Paul cut him off urgently, turning and burying his face into John’s chest. “I… I can’t.”

After a few moments, John merely nodded, his chin bumping against Paul’s head. He kissed him, then said:

“We should eat, though.”

Paul nodded too, and reluctantly let John get up. John took the plates and brought them to the kitchen to heat them up. Paul stayed on the floor, scratching Martha’s fur when she came to lie down next to him. He couldn’t believe what was happening. It was so surreal, so sudden. No matter how much he had prepared himself for this outcome, he had severely underestimated the brutality of it. The ticking of his watch sounded like a mocking omen, and he lost no time in removing it to hide it in a drawer, far from his sight and his hearing. When John came back with their heated plates, they sat together on the couch and silently ate them, even though eating through blocked throats revealed to be particularly hard. Paul wanted to cry, and could tell John did too, but he tried his best not to. If he wanted to last awake as long as possible, he could not afford to waste energy by crying. When they put their empty plates away and John grabbed Paul’s arm to kiss him urgently on the lips, Paul felt even more acutely how unfair this all was. They were together, they were happy. They were finally on the same wavelength, their feelings mirroring each other’s, and the world was ripping them apart once again.

So when John led him to the bedroom, kissing and biting every single inch of his face, Paul responded with renewed vigour. They were quick, almost brutal, until John hovered above Paul on the bed and looked at him with shining eyes, his fingers delicately tracing Paul’s features. His kisses turned tenderer then, and there was so much love floating between them that Paul felt lightheaded – from it, from the lack of air or from the terror of what was to come, he couldn’t tell. John was burning under his feverish hands, and making love had never felt as doomed before. Paul was tired already, so tired, but his ardour and will to stay pushed him into giving everything he had to John. To be one once again, one last time.

Once they were done, they both remained for what felt like hours just lying naked on the bed, their arms and legs intertwined, breathing heavily. With the height from his orgasm fading away, Paul started yawning, more and more. He felt weirdly drowsy. Was it the exhaustion from all this emotion that was killing him? It could be an explanation, but he still found it odd. He turned on his side to look at John, at his soft, long profile, and fought off yet another yawn.

“Fuck,” He whispered, his hand covering his mouth. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I’m so tired, today of all days… fuck, I need coffee…”

He sat up and moved to get off the bed when John sat up too and stopped him with a hand on his arm. Paul turned to him, a bit surprised. John’s fingers started making wavering circles on his knee. His eyes were avoiding Paul’s, and Paul knew something was wrong before he even opened his mouth.

“Coffee won’t help,” He finally said, his voice sounding odd. “I gave you two sleeping pills. Put them in your food.”

His words strangely resonated in Paul’s head before crashing down, so hard Paul felt dizzy. Anguish invaded him, twirled with a sudden rage that made him try to push John away with both hands. And even though Paul physically couldn’t do anything to hurt him, John still fell back on the bed as if there had been any force at all in the gesture.

“What?!" Paul cried out. “Why?! Why did you do that?! Why the fuck did you do that?! We won’t have time!”

John kept staring at him, lips tight, his eyes swimming in unshed tears. There was pain in them, raw pain. Paul was so distressed to see him like that, to see them in this position that his anger instantly dissolved into thin air.

“Why,” Paul repeated in a breath.

John shook his head and tried to breathe too.

“Because you need to sleep, love,” He finally let out with the saddest smile he had ever worn.

At that, Paul couldn’t hold it: a sob shook him whole, then another, and another. John sat up to take him into a fierce hug, his hand cradling the back of Paul’s head.

“But I—I need you— more,” Paul forced out in-between sobs.

“I know,” Came the broken answer.

Paul felt John’s body against his, his hands gently caressing his head, but he was totally numbed by the wrecking sobs coming out of him. He recognized it now, the drowsiness. The weight pulling at his tired eyelids; relentlessly drawing him to sleep. He wouldn’t be able to fight it for long, and there was not enough tears in his body to reflect the depth of his pain. After a long moment, when he felt his body was getting too heavy to handle, he pulled his head back and cradled John’s face, on which tears had started running freely too.

“I lo—” He started with a wavering voice.

But John’s hand was suddenly over his mouth.

“Don’t!”

Paul frowned as John slowly removed his hand, letting his fingers linger on Paul’s chin.

“Don’t say it. Not now,” John continued in a whisper. “I don’t think I could handle it.”

Paul bit his lips, somehow trying to tame the flow of tears. His eyes were trying to close by themselves, and knowing that he would never see John again made him want to scream himself raw. So instead he kissed John, over and over and over again. It would never be enough.

“Come here,” John said against his lips, one hand still on Paul’s chin and the other brushing a rebellious lock of hair behind Paul’s ear.

He urged Paul to lie back down with him, and Paul was so sluggish already that he had no choice but to follow him. Once they were down, John brought Paul closer to his chest, so close every inch of their skin was touching the other, and peppered endless kisses over Paul’s face and hair.

“It’s alright, go to sleep.”

And Paul knew he was drifting off, that he couldn’t fight it any longer. In the dark, in the softness of the sheets and of John’s hand, his voice reached him for the last time.

“I’m here, my love. I’m right here.”

And then, he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... #angstwithahappyending?


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